“I must write it all out, at any cost. Writing is thinking. It is more than living, for it is being conscious of living.” Ann Morrow Lindbergh- American writer and poet
I used to be shy. I didn’t speak for most of my preteen years. My mother enjoyed speaking for me. I didn’t listen either. I existed in the midst of chaos and yelling so thinking and reading soothed me. Many of my thoughts were kept in diaries I hid under my bed. I found that keeping a diary is good practice for writing a book at some future day but not as productive in keeping bullies from pointing out your flaws and threatening to beat you up. My last diary was red and had a key.Unfortunately my mother had a second key and read said diary without my knowledge She kept quiet about that until she found a salacious encounter she thought I had with a boy. I was fourteen and he asked me to do something that I thought was a reasonable request. My mother didn’t agree. He asked me to do his homework. He said I knew how to write “good.” My mother yelled. ” What else did he ask you to do”? I found out then that even my thoughts weren’t sacred in my house and decided to quit blabbing and leave home as soon as possible. But I always went back to my diary. It saved my sanity in times when I could have used a good therapist. In a way I was my own therapist. I began to see my thoughts as a way out of my personal hell. Keeping a diary is the start of a relationship with yourself and one that can be everlasting unlike childhood.
Do you keep a diary? How does it serve you? I promise not to spill the beans.