I journaled like nobody’s business when I was a teen; sharing every bit of myself with the pages that I held so closely to my heart. I didn’t hide it or conceal it from the world…but I dared anyone to read it. I just expected that my privacy would be respected. Of course now that I am a mother, the privacy of a teenager takes on a different meaning, but that’s another blog.
This journal that I confided in every single night, held my most guarded secrets. This journal tells tales of what a hormonal mess I was, my deranged thoughts, my passionate crushes, and my bleeding heart. It spoke of the pain of my parents’ divorce and the disappointment of my first love. It pleaded for a bended ear and a soothing voice. It longed for understanding and hoped that attention would be paid. But it remained silent. I un-friended this journal when I reached its final page, only to replace it with the fresh, clean, pages of a new journal.
The vicious cycle of journaling repeated…until my first real boyfriend died. His death forced me to face the reality of my own mortality. I too would one day die and when I did my journals would be able to confess all of my secrets! The thought of this frightened me to no end. So I stopped…stopped sharing…stopped writing…stopped existing on paper. Instead I began to live in the confines of my mind. I dare not allow my most intimate secrets to spill from the space between my ears onto the blank slate of lined paper. And so it was.
Now, nearly 20 years later, I have started this blog…go figure.