The phrase “one man’s trash is another man’s treasure” has resonated with me since I was a wee, little lady. To many people, I fit the bill of a pack rat, but I prefer the term “collector.”
I struggle to part with any item that holds sentimental value, which has led me to have a massive wealth of things.
Tickets, rocks, wristbands, notes, drawings, scraps, leaves— you name it, I’ve saved it. And don’t even get me started on my 163 Spotify playlists and the 30,000 photos in my camera roll.
Many people relate to my mentality and have similar collections of meaningful things from the past. However, it wasn’t until I was 12 that I found a hobby that encapsulates my need to have a well-documented life.
Annual journals have become a staple in my world, and the bullet journaling trend of the 2010s had me in a chokehold for much of my adolescence.
I’ve always loved to write, but that didn’t start as my favorite part of maintaining my beautiful leather-bound books. Through the years, I’ve found various ways to commemorate my life’s best and worst moments.
I started by making calendars and charts, as I saw many YouTubers do at the time. I used them less as an organizational tool and more as a way to remember what my life looked like during my different phases.
I know what I did in my high school classes and how I spent my time after school. I wrote down my favorite spots and the songs I listened to on repeat. I even would write down the best interactions I had on a certain day.
Lots of people have planners that serve a similar function, but I adored the craft of making detailed monthly, weekly and even sometimes daily layouts with a theme and a color scheme that represented the times.
I did this for many years before it became too tedious and time-consuming to continue. Despite straying from my original format, my journals still played an active role in my daily operations.
When I was around 15, journaling took on a new meaning. I still loved my 100-pack of Crayola super tips, but I leaned into using my journal solely to share my memories with my future self.
I began to journal more traditionally and write about my days and the days to come, frequently referring to my journal as if it was its own person. However, since I’m extra, I needed a new way to turn my favorite books into art.
My ideal form of documenting my escapades was a classic memory page. After having an experience I wanted to remember, I would go straight to my journal and create a two-sided spread full of quotes, pictures, mementos and bright colors.
Things took a turn once again when I purchased my first National Geographic Magazine from my favorite Stillwater antique store.
It may seem wrong, but I knew what I had to do immediately: cut it up. Collaging quickly became my favorite creative outlet. You don’t need any real artistic abilities. All you need is scissors, glue, a magazine and a vision.
When I started making collages, I realized my journals were something I wanted to share with the world.
Some of my collages are meaningful, sometimes they’re just for kicks. However, as with any form of art, they’re always up to interpretation. I sought to hear what other people made of what I created.
Despite my love for sharing, there are parts of my journals that are just for me. I used traditional-style journaling to document the good and the bad and the ugly, but mostly the bad and the ugly. Yet I look back at those pages just as much, if not more.
There’s both sadness and comfort in rereading my accounts of fear, uncertainty and my own exploration of feeling overwhelming feelings for the first time.
I often yearn to go back in time and tell past Mary what to do or give her what I know she needed, but at the same time, the path of my journaling is satisfying. As I read along, I watch from a bird’s-eye view as I piece things together and — usually— learned.
I love her, and I hate her, but I know her and I’m proud of her. She is me, after all.
I am grateful to my former self for picking up a hobby that authentically and fully grasped my way of living.
My journals are amalgamations of the parts of myself that I treasure most dearly: my art, my words and my growth as a young person. They taught me to appreciate myself and the life I’ve been given.
I lived between those sticker-filled covers during my most formative years. Looking through the stack of books that lives on my dresser feels like reminiscing with an old friend. I don’t know who I’d be if I hadn’t put myself on paper.
Allessi can be reached at [email protected].
