I kept a diary as a young girl. I still have the very first one: 6" square, with wide-lined pages, covered in red felt stamped with little brown teddy bears wearing blue shirts, and a small brass lock to keep those pages closed. I was just old enough to form complete sentences and know how to structure a letter. I remember taking great pride in opening the lock and writing my letters to God. And I remember the importance of closing that lock and knowing that my thoughts and feelings were safe with Him. For no one else to see or judge. I got to be completely honest about all that was exciting or disappointing or anticipated or hurtful. I reveled in the private nature of this ritual.
And I remember the feelings of betrayal and shame and vulnerability when I discovered that my sister had broken that lock open. Five years younger than me, she probably couldn't read most of it, much less care about its contents. But it cut deep. These thoughts and feelings were no longer private. I could no longer commit my inner longings to paper, lest someone find and read them. That diary still has many blank pages.
As I reached my teens, I slowly began writing again. But, determined to not have a repeat of the diary fiasco, I began keeping a 'journal'- an artsy chronicling of my day-to-day interactions and events. I chose the beautiful covers from the shelves of Barnes & Noble. So beautiful, they weren't meant to be hidden. They were meant to be carried and viewed. And although the pages contained my thoughts and feelings, they were written with the premise that someone might read them. And thought went into what such a reader would think about my ramblings before I committed anything to paper. And I became less and less honest with myself. It turned from writing about my thoughts and feelings to the thoughts and feelings I 'ought to' have. Others couldn't know my pain, my weakness, so I left those parts out. I made light of things that I didn't find funny. I editorialized others' actions. And the more I did this, the less purposeful it became. So I stopped.
I think that each year in my mid-to-late twenties I made New Year's resolutions to begin keeping a diary again. I went out and purchased leather-bound blank books. I envisioned writing truthfully again. I imagined coming to grips with the person I had become, faults and all, and making a move toward self-acceptance.
Maybe the books were too nice. My handwriting wouldn't be perfect and I wouldn't be able to erase 'mistakes'. Where would I start? Would I need to re-cap the last couple years or just start on a random day with no context? Was anything happening in my life that was 'worthy' of documentation? The hesitation would last the whole year long and I recycled the vow the following January. Again, I was thinking of the writing only in terms of it being read later on. Whether it was to be read by myself or others, it would never again be about the process of writing.
Until now.
Now I will
write to stay healthy, to preserve my sanity. I will unabashedly pour my heart out onto these virtual pages in an effort to clear my mind, to organize my thoughts, to record the human experience of grief; all the while knowing that this blog will be read, whether by myself or others, by strangers that stumble upon this or friends and family I may invite here somewhere down the road. But I will aim to recapture the spirit of that little red diary; emptying my heart and mind to God, and feeling the satisfaction of honesty about who I am and how I feel.
I welcome anyone to read. I welcome comments, questions, observations. I welcome different perspectives. I welcome it all, because I have been alone with these thoughts and feelings and questions of my own for too long already.
