My sister gave me my first diary; I was in elementary school and I used it to write about my crushes and daily events, locking up my secrets with the little key. As I aged, my entries became less rote and more spontaneous; the pages became an outlet for the expression of my deepest feelings: I would scribble, draw, write with fury or with elegance, all depending on my mood. Today's Information Age has replaced paper and pen with keyboards and Microsoft; I've been typing out my entries in a saved document on my desktop. When I got diagnosed, a couple of dear friends recommended I go back to journaling and gifted me notebooks. Staring at the hardcover, I was afraid to start; the organic flow of feelings traveling from my gut, through my right arm, a pen and etched onto paper was daunting: was I ready to face my terror? I opened to the first blank page and just like second nature, I wrote voraciously. Thank you Mimi, Elena and Tom, for giving me a venue to purge my devastating feelings.