Mine suggested it once, but never pushed it because I have a fear of writing. Fast forward to today, post therapy 2 plus years. Last month, I got a gift from my ex therapist, a journal. The gift was accepted with appreciation, because of what my life entails now. Last week, I took it out of my suitcase, and set it on a shelf, thinking, one day — I'll get around to it.

My distaste for journaling goes back to my mom reading, and using against me what I wrote at 10 in my journal. I knew she was snooping, so I wrote about getting high on various substances. Her unnecessary worry was rightly deserved. I never even came upon marijuana until I was 18, on a senior class trip to Disney in Florida.

It's okay to say no, I don't want to.