When I was in college, I once told one of my professors that my journal was my verbal toilet. My journal was a place where I could puke up all my innermost worries and thoughts. He looked at me slightly aghast, and maybe slightly appalled. (I don’t think he liked me all that well anyway, it was rumored he loved the butt kissers)
I thought the simile was apropos. When I had a buildup in of anxiety, I would throw words down on the paper as quickly as I could. It was free therapy, without being embarrassed about what other people thought. I don’t have to show other people my journal, unless of course I want to. And I certainly don’t have to write if I don’t feel like it, I’m not in school, grammar doesn’t have to be perfect. Sometimes the imperfections are more revealing than the actual writing.