I received my first diary when I was 10 years old from my aunt for my birthday. It had a lock and key and I absolutely loved it. I wrote in it often. Obviously at 10 years old the contents were pretty trivial, but over the years as I got older, I definitely began to see my diary as an outlet for my feelings.
During my teenage years I didn’t dare put down on paper everything that I was feeling or experiencing (apparently I was wise beyond my years for the pre-tech era) but I still wrote in “code” assuming I’d always remember what I was thinking as a delusional teenage girl. My diary turned into diaries, and they traveled with me when I went away to college, my various apartments in my 20s and they remain to this day in my nightstand.
Sometimes I would write in them every week, sometimes I’d go months in between entries. Every once in awhile I’d even go back and re-read a handful of them. Some made me laugh, a lot made me cry and still many more made me look back and think what the hell was I thinking?! Regardless however, through the years, those diaries acted as my silent therapist. The one “person” that I could tell anything and everything to (well to an extent because like I said no one really ever wants everything in writing) and it would only listen. No judgement. No unwanted discussion. No unsolicited advice. We had a good thing going.
Until the day that I vowed I’d never write another journal entry again. I still don’t know what my last entry was because I just haven’t had the stomach (or maybe it’s courage, I really don’t know…) to actually go back and read my final post. I’m sure it was just me complaining about work or some stupid thing my husband might have done that pissed me off. Because really, what else did I have going on in my 20s? Regardless, the summer of 2010 my brother was killed and I swore I’d never pick up that pen and diary again. Because to do so, would mean I would actually have to sit and process all of the feelings that were swirling uncontrollably inside my head. The hate, the sadness, the guilt, the pure unfiltered raw emotion that never seemed to stop. At the time when I needed my silent therapist the most, I abandoned it.
To this day, I don’t really know if I actually regret it or not. Maybe it would have helped me, maybe not. Either way I’ve realized I do miss “airing” out my feelings. My husband has always said I’m the worst English student there is. I can’t verbally express my feelings to save my life but I’d be happy to write a 10-page paper detailing every single thought I’ve had since the beginning of time. Writing is just my thing. For years I’ve been telling myself I’d start blogging – figured it was sort of a compromise, a diary without really being a true diary.
So here it is, folks, my new and improved diary. Almost four years later after telling myself “let’s do this,” I decided, for real this time, to actually do this. This is technically my fourth blog draft over the past three years, but I figured I better start at the beginning before I post anything. And hopefully maybe my first-world, stay-at-home-deranged-mom problems just might give you a laugh or even a nod of the head in understanding. But most importantly, I’m hoping this will give me an outlet, once again, to express myself in really the only way I know how: writing.