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Katharine Hepburn is quoted, "You cannot change the music of your soul." Ever since I was seven years old, I knew I wanted to be a writer. As a lonely teen ridiculed by the neighborhood girls, I kept to myself, reading books and writing poems. I'd browse the dictionary to find interesting words, writing them down in a notebook to memorize.

Words were my first love, and music came in second. In college, I was a disc jockey on the FM radio, finding refuge in the sounds heard left-of-the-dial. That's when the illness crept up. I started wearing theater makeup, staying up late and unable to sleep, slumming at downtown New York City clubs like CBGB.

I dressed in black and there was no turning back. The summer I graduated school, my beloved grandfather was in a coma, hooked up to a respirator at the hospital. I became paranoid, had racing thoughts, and was hospitalized. I spent the next year speechless, unable to write in my journal until the day I moved into a halfway house.

Taking pen to page, I began to clear the cobwebs out of my mind to let a ray of light through. The irony in my becoming ill is that I've been given the ability to discover what's important to me. It's the chance to wipe the slate clean, to start out as if many options are before me. As I took my first stab at recovery, I struggled with my identity. Who was I? The daring, rebellious young girl who thought she could change the world, one Punk Rock record at a time, or the woman who'd gotten work as an insurance broker and dutifully punched the clock, showing up day-after-day in beige suits?

The balancing act between these roles was like a tight rope wire. I was caught between giving up the illness - which seemed to indicate the need to give up a part of myself - and crossing over into the other side: a new, untried self. By journaling, I recorded the shifting tides of my recovery. I found that I could express myself and blend in; it wasn't an all-or-nothing proposition.

For sixteen years I've kept my journal in assorted hardbound notebooks, documenting history. I still love music, though now it's jazz, and I've begun a career as a freelance writer.

Being in recovery, attending a support group meeting, and working as a reference librarian have all contributed to a newfound peace and acceptance. Mostly, it's been my writing that sees me through the losses and endings, the changes and growth.

I'd recommend that anyone keep a journal.

Write when the spirit moves you, not because you think it's an everyday thing. Write passionately. I've found that my journal, a constant companion, has stayed with me through the rocky times and shared the joyous moments.

Schizophrenia robbed me of my soul, it took the words out of my mouth and I couldn't place them on the page. When I relapsed and spent two weeks in the hospital, I feared I'd never write again. Once released, I bought a journal with leopard-print covers and began to reclaim my voice. That is the beauty of the written word: if we name it, we can claim it.

The journal allows me to get in touch with my feelings. If I'm having a bout of low self-esteem, I'll go to the book and write down "candid compliments"--a list of things I'm grateful for. Lately, I've turned to the journal to script article and book ideas; to sketch the goals I have for the next four years.

A journal is yours alone: no one else sees it, and you're free to record the scary and shocking thoughts, too. My therapist I'd seen in my twenties had suggested I write down the troubling words that popped into my head. He said I'd be able to deal with them better if I could get them outside of myself.

Writing has been therapy; music, an elixir. Is schizophrenia part of the music of my soul? Maybe. Yet I'd rather not return to the days of paranoia and fear, so I take medication. Of course, popping pills alone didn't change me; I credit the journal as the number-one source of healing, right up there with full-time employment.

What's changed since I've been in recovery? I understand that if I can't please my soul, and feed and nurture my self-expression, I'm at odds with my true self. I'll not return to the days of working at corporations, and I am okay with that.

My writing is music to my ears. I perform during poetry readings at cafes and in cabaret rooms. My voice is strong and clear. I also attend a writing workshop, and a women's journal circle. It's a way to socialize, to extravert my solo hobby and come in contact with others who have the need to be heard.

If I've provided some food for thought, enjoy. Happy nibbling and scribbling!