Holy. Shit. You guys.
I can’t seem to embed any of my podcasts here, which sucks, but here:
This episode of Dear Sugars turned me into a crying little bitch last night.
Dear Sugars just came at me with…like…me.
I was so just wrecked from hearing someone describe myself to me. Please, please don’t tell my therapist this but…
*Whispers* I can’t hear anything about not being ashamed when he says it, but when Reema says it I instantly feel better.
I think when he says it it’s like the same thing as when your mom assures you that you’re pretty.
I mean, I’m guessing.
Like, you know she’s kind of, a little bit, like…obligated…to say that?
But Reema doesn’t have to.
Ugh. I wish Dear Sugars would offer transcriptions of their episodes because I can’t take notes this fast. Not gonna lie. I spent three hours transcribing it by hand last night because it’s such a clear, distilled expression of so many jumbled thoughts I’ve been carrying around half-baked for so, so long.
I feel both better and worse though, because it’s like that little unexpected moment of intense connection but also… That’s a competing title, ya know? I hate all forms of competition so the whole idea of shopping this memoir I’m so desperate to write around is stressing me out.
It’s nice to know there’s a market, but the presence of that market necessarily means competition.
It’s the nature of the beast, I know, and it’s the least of the challenges to me writing and selling this book inside of me. But still.
Anyhow. That episode seriously galvanized and jazzed me but also gave me that squishy feeling in my tummy.
Now. I wanted to make this a Thursday ramble…which is a weekly feature I’m working on figuring out. But Thursday got busy and I was in court and/or writing about what happened in court all day long today so I’m catching up now.
Here’s the thing: I’ve always wanted to BuJo but I have this thing about my notebooks. Either I don’t even try and my handwriting is all janky as hell and my journal becomes an ugly, heinous mess, or…it must, must be perfect.
Like, Stepford perfect.
I have thrown away entire, half-filled journals and started from scratch because too many pages were messy and had to be ripped out.
I know I’ve mentioned sensory sensitivity here. One of my crazy pleasure sensations is the sound and feel of notebook paper that’s been filled on both sides with a heavy pen handwriting.
That crinkly, delicate, wrinkly feel and noise of inked out paper just does it for me. A lot.
God I’m so damn weird. Like, I just love to run my fingers over it. The sensation of it is just so nice.
I have issues.
Anyhow, my agenda ran out the last week of July and it was time for a new one. I prefer appointment books and I like them set up a certain way and I decided rather than spend 30 bucks on a new one I was going to take advantage of school supply season (the only season I love as much as Halloween season) and get myself a dotted journal and I finally committed to the perfect imperfection of learning to BuJo.
I had to seriously resist the urge to rip out page after page as I committed lines to the sheets, and messed them up, and developed an inconsistent layout because I was trying out different stuff to find the best conglomeration of elements for me.
But now I’m on my way with it and I’m excited.
What I love about BuJo is that it’s your work calendar and your mindfulness journal and a budget planner and an address book and a personal planner and a sketchbook and a smash book and just all of the things, all rolled into one.
Here’s how it’s turning out so far (please don’t judge me for my bills or my therapy notes, I’m being vulnerable here…be nice):
It’s become this awesome little daily practice of tracking my mood…just making that page every day is this really nice little element of my day that I’ve grown to really enjoy and look forward to. It’s like intentionally setting aside time to take stock of myself every day. Making a month’s layout necessarily forces you to think about that month and set and visualize goals and intentions. Recapping each month is such a great way to gain perspective. And the mood tracking takes this nebulous facet of your emotional life and makes it discernable and understandable and manageable.
It’s been really sort of calming. At first it was anxiety provoking but once I embraced the mistakes and the fact that I would make more, endlessly, I started to feel above that trigger that’s always sort of held me back. It’s not as strong anymore. Every time I do a page and accept it’s imperfection I make an assertion against my anxiety.
Making the journal myself and then filling it in has become this process in daily mindfulness. And I’m loving it.
I’ve learned through committing to BuJo and pushing through the very real anxiety over the imperfection of each page that perfection is both a myth and not worth worrying about.
That’s not quite it though.
How do I explain this?
It’s not coming to terms with mistakes and imperfections. It’s finding them beautiful and loving them most because they’re what make the bullet journal my bullet journal.
Accepting and loving your imperfections is another one of those things that people say when they want to seem wise and well-adjusted and the rest of us fucking hate.
But it’s a thing that just happened for me.
Now. If I can just transfer that attitude to my body image I’ll be fucking unstoppable!
Hahaha. Haha. Ha.
Fair warning though. If you decide to give BuJo a try and you get hooked and you’re also a reader you’re going to notice one day that your purse is getting way heavy, and when you go to clean it out you’re going to realize that you, like me, are now the one woman/man/entity bookmobile.
Gotta return two of those to their owners. Oopsie doopsie!