I began journaling when I was nine years old. I only wrote two entries that entire year. One was about a trip to a miniature golf course, and the other was the biggest secret I have ever kept.
I don't know why I wrote the secret down; it was not something I wanted to re-read or to remember. Maybe I felt that it deserved to be documented. Maybe if I wrote it down, it would be just another story.
Trying to remember my nine year old self's reasoning is difficult. But now that I really think of it, imagining myself sitting on my bed, thoughts of it filling my head, the main thing I remember is my diary. My mum had given it to me earlier that year. It was beautiful; a shiny "My Little Pony" cover with pink, lined, strawberry scented pages. Do you think they spoke to me? Maybe those pages drew me to them, pen (and pen license) in hand, willing me to spill.
Now I have a box of diaries from age nine to twenty-something. A box of secret thoughts and hopes and fears. Sometimes I think I’d like my future grandkiddies to read them when I’m gone, most times I’d like to throw the whole lot out! A lot of what’s hidden in there I wish I had never let into the world - I find I’m most verbose when I’m sad or trying to figure something out.
Curious. Why do we commit to paper things that we don’t really want anyone to see - ever?