duck-shaped pain

I decided to do this as sort of an offshoot of the diary I've been writing on paper for the last few months. I've never been able to successfully keep a diary in my life, at least not since first grade or so (the one diary I kept when I was about six was not very interesting. All the entries read like this: "Had juice for breakfast. School was OK. Nothing on TV. I'm not friends with anyone at my bus stop anymore."). I've tried a few times since then to keep one, with little success. Here are some various reasons why:

Tried too hard. Bought a too-fancy journal, which, at least for me, makes me feel obligated to think really fancy thoughts. Tried to seriously write in a journal with angels on the front (it was a gift, I swear). Had problems, for a long time, being honest with myself about what I was feeling. Had a hard time writing down anything serious because then it would be right there, on the page, and I would have to look at it. Had better things to do. Boycotted lined paper for a long time. Hand could't keep up with mind. Couldn't read own handwriting (still can't).

As you can see, the reasons ranged from mere excuses to serious problems.

It's been a good five or six years since I tried keeping a diary. I've filled lots of sketchbooks since then, but that's always seemed very different to me. I've never had problems drawgin, or showing people what I was drawing. I hate hate hate it when people try to read what I write, though. That's why my handwriting is so bad.

I just never had the time or desire to keep one. But, this year, all I have is time. I broke my leg earlier this year, doing something stupid (how that stuff always happens), and I've been out of work and more or less homebound ever since. For the first few months of my rehabilitation, I got into a pretty close relationship with my television. All I wanted to do was forget what had happened to me (both the accident and a lot of other things, which I may or may not talk about later). So I kind of tried to push it out of my mind with TV, which worked for awhile.

One day, after I was able to at least get out and around a bit, however uncomfortably, my mom and I went to a yard sale. It was some fundraising yard sale, for some unknown organization, but they had some pretty good books. I also found an old blank notebook. It's a heavy one, bound in black vinyl, with the letters ROSARY COFRATERNITY stamped on the cover. Now, I have quite a collection of old notebooks, ledgers and stationery. I buy them, but I never do anything with them.

When I got this notebook home, I opened it up. The paper was just the way I like it -- very smooth and substantial, with no real tooth to clog pens or scratch against your hand (I had a long, nearly fruitless search a few years back for a plain sketchbook with the same qualities). It just felt nice and right. So, I decided to write something in it. And I kept writing. So many thoughts had built up in my head since the last time I seriously wrote something (about two years, for lots of reasons), that I just kept going. I've actually managed to keep it for two months now, which is nothing short of miraculous for me. I've kept it longer than I've kept any goldfish, that's for sure.