Over a year ago, I shared this little random fact about myself: " I am an avid journal writer. I write in it every day, no exceptions."
And I wasn't lying. I really write in it every. single. day. A few sentences or many, exciting news or boring routines, deep thoughts or fluffy nonsense, I record the events of my life.
With fourteen, perfect-record years under my belt, I thought my habit of journal writing was as secure as remembering to breathe.
But last night, I picked up my journal and found where I last left off. My pen was poised, ready to write "January 12th" when I realized there was no "January 11th" on the previous page.
Laughing to myself, I flipped back a couple of pages wondering where my dating had gone awry. I was sure I'd find two January 8ths or some other such nonsense.
But no, everything seemed to be in order. So I flipped back to the last entry I'd written, dated January 10th. I read over it; there was no question; it was written on Friday.
Up to this point, I still wasn't even considering that I actually hadn't written on January 11th. Of course I'd written! I must have just had other things on my mind at the time and so hadn't paid attention to which page I was writing on. I meticulously went through my journal, page by blank page.
And that is when it finally hit me: I didn't write in my journal. I broke my fourteen-year-long streak. And it wasn't because I was in childbirth or deathly ill or exhausted. It was simply because I forgot.
How do you forget to do something that you've done every single day for the last fourteen years?
I know many of you are probably laughing at this absurd post. "So you missed one day in fourteen years? Big deal. Have you ever heard of world hunger?"
It doesn't really matter. I know. I will continue writing, and January 11, 2014 will never be missed. But I guess I feel like a part of me is missing. I mean, I know I forgot. But now that I realized I forgot, shouldn't a part of my brain kick in and remember that I forgot? But no. I keep going back over the perfectly normal events of Saturday night, and I can't remember not writing in my journal.
So yes, I'm (more than a little) sad that I can no longer say "I write in my journal every day" without qualifying it with "except for that one totally random day where I forgot." But more than that, I'm worried that I'm losing my mind. When I wrote about it in my journal last night, I said, "I am flabbergasted. There is no other word for it."