The Journey

by Emma

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.

VitalWrite

Anne Frank

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…

View original post 277 more words

Advertisements