Hidden away in a drawer, somewhere in my room where no one can find it, is a personal journal I have so I can write my feelings away. I love writing. There’s just something about it that feels so therapeutic to me, where I can black out and wake up with a page full of my own thoughts and emotions.
This journal, however, isn't a cute little book with each page starting out as “dear diary...”, but it is a messy journal full of songs I have written. Most of them only halfway finished or from months ago, or both, yet I feel like what I have in there describes me well.
I’ve been writing songs for months at this point, yet I’m pretty sure only about 3 of my friends are aware of how much I write. I don't even think my own guitar teacher, Zack, knows I write. Mostly because I haven't told anyone that I write. Despite there being no reason to be embarrassed or ashamed, my face still gets red when someone wants to hear a song and I still get defensive when I’m asked what my songs are about. See, I use making music to get what I really need to say, off my chest. These songs are filled with heartbreak, love, sadness, anxiety. Everything that is going on in my head, I can filter through the rhythmic rhymes of my lyrics.
Creating music has a way of making me feel seen by myself, through making complex analogies or letting my thoughts spill out of me in the form of words in messy handwriting. Even though I am proud of them, I protect these songs like they’re my children. I refuse to let anybody listen to these songs. They hold my secrets. They have my soul. These songs are the definition of me in the form of words on a page.
Even though I don’t have the dorky “dear diary” at the start of each song, there might as well be one because that is what this journal is. It is my safe space.
I’ve only ever sung one song to one extremely close friend, once. She loved it and flexed on our friends that she just heard “2024’s new #1 hit”, but trust me, my hands were shaking like never before afterwards. The reflex of feeling so vulnerable to her hit me hard while singing it. Even though I knew she was a safe space, that she would love whatever I do, I still was terrified to show my true, vulnerable emotions with her.
My friends call me a yapper. It's true. When I find something or someone I love, I will go on long tangents about everything I know. Sometimes I don’t even have something to talk about, I just... talk. Nobody has ever told me that my “yap sessions” bothered them, but I’ve gotten in the habit of telling myself that they are annoyed with me. Even just my friends calling them “yap sessions” kind of bothers me. I have a problem with always feeling like a burden whenever I talk for longer than normal, so whenever I talk in general, there’s always something telling me that I’m annoying and need to stop. So, I’ve found the way to still let out my emotions without bothering anyone, is to write them to myself and never let them see the light of day. So far, it’s working.
It's funny how I always feel bad when I rant about things, because I absolutely LOVE it when someone rants to me about something they love. It lets me know that they feel safe with me to talk about this, and even if they don't struggle with my same problem, it still reminds me that they know I’m a safe space. I would never ever judge someone for being passionate about something, even if I don't understand any of it, I will sit down and just listen because I love to see my friends so passionate about something. Seeing my friends' faces light up with joy when I ask a question or give a compliment brings me all the joy I need.
Yet, I still see myself as annoying or a burden, so everything I want to say, I say through writing. I fit my thoughts into verses, choruses, and a bridge, so I can have what I need to hear right in front of me. These feelings never expressed or shared; some say that it’s just some words on a paper, but it is so much more than that. It’s everything that I want to shout from the top of a mountain all composed into a catchy hook.
I use writing as a way to escape, however, I catch myself constantly having writers block or simply not knowing where to start. I wonder “how do I really want to put my thoughts into words?”. There are so many different ways I can channel my thoughts into my writing, and even if I'm trying to convey the same message, there are so many different outcomes and words to choose from, it becomes overwhelming. A single thought can be maneuvered into countless different words and stories, making it impossible to find the perfect piece.
So, with that knowledge, I just write. And I keep writing. And I don't stop writing until all my thoughts are said. Sometimes I can put it into a new blog, but most times it's in the form of a song. This constant need to feel heard by myself produces many different creations that all share a similar story yet are all so different in many ways. I can look at a situation and make it heart wrenching or full of love, mysterious or direct; all the different sides of a situation that can be looked at, I have noticed and written about.
Maybe one day I’ll release a song or two. If I’m extremely proud of one and am not scared for the world to hear, it could be a fun opportunity. So far, I can't, and for both reasons. There isn't one that I'm very proud of yet, and as stated many times, I am terrified for people to hear them. Maybe it’s just the fear that people won't like what I make or say the lyrics sound dumb, but what I'm truly scared about is how people will see me after they listen. I truly do have nothing to hide, I can be pretty direct with my feelings, and most can simply tell by my face what I am feeling in the moment. But the deep analysis of myself that I write creates a new effect that not even I knew I was capable of.
This hidden notebook is planned to stay hidden, getting filled with the messy scribbles that are my thoughts. Once it’s full, it’ll be replaced with another book, then another, then another. I don't think I’ll ever have enough space to fully capture what I want to say. The drawer will become full of sheets of paper, and I will keep writing, maybe move onto another drawer waiting for it to be filled with the same. But, until I’m ready, these incomplete, messy works of myself will remain unknown to the rest of the world. Untouched, unedited, and unbothered, just a little piece of myself that only I can see.
love,
Allie Harder,
FMG Copywriter
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