I am a grown woman that writes in her diary, and I’m not ashamed of it.
I was given a diary at the age of ten, not knowing the purpose of having one. I didn’t have a lot of things to talk about, only how annoying people in my immediate family are.
Two years later, an assignment was given in class about journal writing, and I took to it immediately. During that summer, I bought a cheap spiral-bound notebook and began writing in it, presumably on a daily basis.
From that point on, the journal became my best friend. Whenever I had a bad day, I would write about it. Whenever I had a good day, I would write about it as well. If nothing happened, I would write about my hopes, dreams, the crushes on the boys I harbored until someone else came along to distract me from the last guy I crushed on.
Somewhere in the process of writing, it's what prompted me to want to become a writer of sorts.
I kept the journaling up throughout high school until something bad happened to me. I didn’t write in it at all, knowing the state of mind I was in at the time didn’t allow me to pick up my nearly-filled notebook to do a massive mental dump of my thoughts and emotions that were wreaking havoc on my mind.
By the time I felt I was brave enough to begin writing again, I started to write short stories and dabbled back into journaling at that point.
That was around the same time my nosy bitch little sister decided to take it upon herself and read my journal. Her excuse was that she wanted to know what was going on with me since I never tell her anything. For good reason, because she was a big snitch. My space was violated, and I stopped because of her.
When I got ready to leave Illinois for Michigan for a job in grassroots political organizing, I bought a few blank hardcover notebooks to take with me. I wanted to begin keeping a diary again. I guess I was in a hurry and left it out in the open on accident while cleaning and my roommate found it, and you guessed it. I was urged to get rid of it, and I didn’t.
I wasn’t going to let someone who was mad at me for having an opinion on what I thought of everyone and their so-called relationships tell me how I should write in something that is mine.
The same roommate gave me hers to read, and I handed it back to her, telling her that I don’t violate people’s privacy and neither should you. She had a look of shock on her face, and I didn’t care one iota.
While in Texas, I kept up with the diary and wrote in it almost daily. I liked the landscape, and I also missed the feel of the Midwest. I was unhappy there and wanted to leave the political organizing world for good. I wasn’t happy at all. I wanted to return to school and start what I began in 2001: getting my degree in journalism.
When I returned to Illinois, I wrote in it about my struggles to find a job, going to school, meeting up with old friends and everything else you can think of.
In that process, I began laying the groundwork for a website I would love to have. My intention is to use the platform and my knowledge of social media to ultimately land a job in the communications field. Stay tuned for the next installment for more information.
It’s been twenty-three years since I began keeping a diary. I intend on keeping one up until I can no longer write.