Story of a Diary

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is just a random piece of writing I came across in my files. I figured I would post it. I guess its like a mini story...

Submitted: June 02, 2011

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Submitted: June 02, 2011



I have but I haven’t. Changed that is. The girl I was when I wrote in that purple journal with the kittens on it is still inside of me. I still think in the same patterns as her. Have the same insights she did with just a little more experience thrown in. I was a mess then and very much am a mess now. I read all through those pages, spanning three years, of how I wanted to feel something, anything other than frustration. How I wanted to no longer be depressed. How I wanted to feel loved and wanted. Sometimes I still feel those things. A decade from that person I was and I still find pieces of her in me. I couldn’t even be honest with myself in my own diary about some things. Left so much unsaid. Much like now. I still write, just not in a purple diary. Now my diary is a stage, but I’m still unable to really face the truth. That would mean remembering the pain, the sadness, the fear. I’d rather not, though I need to.

I’ve never been good with feelings. Mainly because I’ve spent a majority of my life numb. No over the top dramatics for me in my adolescence. I was stoic but not in a heroic, role model way. In the I’ve bottled up so much stuff that now I don’t know how to let it all go kind of way. Impassivity and indecisiveness carried over from childhood and now I find it hard to make simple decisions and nearly impossible to make the tough ones. Maybe that’s because growing up I never had choices to make. We had a humble lifestyle my mother and I. Not much room for the extras that call for opinions, it was more about what could be afforded to us. As a young adult not much differed in lifestyle though I sometimes try to trick myself into believing that isn’t the case. That only makes things more humble in the end.

I wish that I could go back in time to that teenaged angst riddled girl and tell her to write the truth, all of it. So that one day, ten years from then I could read my diary and know that I wasn’t avoiding what happened. Everything that I had been through and felt and experienced. One day I won’t be able to remember all the things I never wrote down, I barely remember the things I read in my old diary now. Like I’m reading the life of a stranger written in my handwriting. I read of boys whose names don’t match any of the faces I remember from high school. Moments where I actually told my diary to hold on because someone had entered the room and I wanted it to know that I would be returning to whisper ink onto it’s pages soon. And times where I was angry or hurt about something painful that occurred but I was too afraid to make it real by painting with words so I only referred to it as “him” or “it” or “that”. I wish that I could tell past me that future me would want to remember how it felt to be in those moments.

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