I also kept a diary ‘Dear diary’….
Through my childhood days and turbulent teenage years, my diary became my best friend and confident. I shared my embarrassing ‘first loves’, my fears, my anxieties, and my verbal tantrums.
My diary became my counsellor and my personal therapist.
As an adult, I looked back and felt my cheeks flush in embarrassment;
‘Did I really write that?’
‘Omg how could I have thought that?’
I did the unthinkable. I destroyed the evidence. I destroyed the little girl’s dreams and worries.
I regret that.
I have pondered about rekindling with my friend. I have thought about creating that personal bond again. Nothing beats a crisp and fresh page, new ink, and the smell of a book. Especially a personal book. A diary.
Not simply just a book. An emotional interface. A written exploration and a reflective paradox.
I have kept a diary from the age of about eight. I used to start each day with: Dear Kizzy, and write as if to a friend. Sadly most of my teenage diaries were destroyed because my older self didn’t like that previous expression of angst. And even later diaries were destroyed, but those ones in a ceremonial fire – I realised how much bitterness and anger from my divorce they contained, and wanted to let that go.
Five years ago I started referring to my diary as a journal, I don’t know if that word is a little more serious, or if I just needed a change of term for a change in the style of entry. In the past re-reading diaries was painful because the pages were filled with all the bad things that happened so this made my life seem incredibly unbalanced, although it wasn’t at all…
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