Do you keep a journal? Have you ever gone back and read some of what you wrote years ago and then asked yourself, “Did I write that?” Were you are amazed that you ranted angrily about something that made you cuss someone out on paper or did you write in detail about a romantic daydream in which you fantasized being with that special someone like Billie Dee Williams or Paul Newman? Yummy!
Many U.S. Presidents kept diaries. So do some authors. Lewis Carroll, who penned Alice in Wonderland kept a diary. Even Oprah Winfrey does it. She said, “Keeping a journal will absolutely change your life in ways you’ve never imagined.”
Over the decades, I have kept a journal now and then. Currently, I am in the now stage. I actually started my very first diary when I was about 13 or 14. It didn’t have any juicy stuff in it. In fact, as I think about it now, my diary was totally unexciting. Like many boomers of limited means who reached adulthood in the late 1960s or early 70s, I didn’t have anything very exciting to write about. School activities. A boy I had a crush on. Fights with my siblings. My adolescent years were boring. I’m talking Leave It To Beaver and The Partridge Family boring. There is absolutely no comparison to what I imagine is in the diaries of some of today’s teenagers. OMG! Blush. Blush. Is boiling water hot? Does a fire ant sting? Can you say triple X-rated teens gone wild? You get the point.
But back to mine. One day my mother discovered my diary in its poorly selected hiding place under my mattress (I’m sure today’s teenagers are much more creative) and apparently it was no trouble for her to open the flimsy lock on it. Afterward, at the first opportunity, she let me know that she had read it by vocally lashing me with some of my own words and private thoughts. I felt as violated as I imagine a rape victim must feel, so I tore every single page of that little book into tiny pieces and then threw it in the trash. I promised myself I would never keep another diary. That promise didn’t last long.
Some years later, when I was grown and on my own, I started journaling again. In my mid-twenties I had page-upon-page of my experiences scripted in a couple of three ring binders. Life had gotten more exciting. Then, when I was thirty-something, I destroyed those, too. Second dumb move. If I ever destroy another one of my journals I hope someone will put me in bio-checkmate. I doubt if anyone can remember every aspect of their own personal history without recording it. So, why did I destroy my diaries a second time? That’s a post for another day.