What I write about my day is often about much more than what the words seem to express. The words my day make me feel that I’m writing about trivial matters, as if the details of one’s daily life were unimportant. The daily details that might seem unimportant are often the ones that affect us the most emotionally. I sound as if I knew what I was talking about. I wish I could speak in sentences as short as the ones I sometimes write. I realize that a fact has been hiding itself from me: I’ve been keeping a journal for over eleven months without admitting to myself that’s what I’ve been doing. I wrote the first entry on a Tuesday, June 21, the day I contacted a psychoanalytic society here in Seattle. I didn’t realize what I was doing until I heard a voice on the other end of the line. I was afraid of doing what I desired: to experience psychoanalysis myself. Yet I was following my desire. The woman and I spoke. The process of finding a psychoanalysis had begun. I meant to write psychoanalyst instead of psychoanalysis. It wasn’t the first time I’d contacted this psychoanalytic society. Three years earlier, in wintertime, I’d contacted the same society, and I wrote in my journal last June that perhaps I spoke with the same person on both occasions. Maybe I was surprised that three years had passed so quickly. On that winter night three years earlier, after the phone conversation, I’d decided not to pursue the matter further. I was afraid. Three years later, I called again, and psychoanalysis found me. And I started to write about my psychoanalytic experiences in a journal. Nearly a year has passed since I contacted the psychoanalytic society for the second time. I feel my own fear in the sentences that I wrote on that Tuesday last June. Am I going to reread the several journals that I’ve written since then? Words alone won’t decide.