dear diary

This is my journal. My real journal. The kind with actual paper that you write on with a pen or pencil. The kind you hold in your hands, then slowly crack the binding and smile slightly as you blemish the first page with your favorite ink pen. That kind of journal. The romantic old fashioned REAL kind.


I have a zillion of these books, most of them only half-filled with snippets of me. After a while, as with most things, I bore with them and a pretty new book catches my eye so I buy it and begin filling it with random doodles, heartwrenching confessions, cheesy poetry; stuff I wouldn’t dare post here. Then they go on a shelf somewhere, get stuffed into a box or under the bed and the cycle repeats with a fresh book. I like the new start a clean journal gives me. I guess its symbolic in a way that seems ridiculously obvious and trite. But still true for me.

Sometimes I read through the old ones and laugh or sometimes cringe. I’ve been known to rip out pages and burn them to keep anyone, myself included, from ever reading them again. But I always remember what I wrote.  The real me isn’t on this blog or Facebook or Twitter or anywhere really, except in my journals.

…he breaks my heart a little more every time…sam rolled over today…even though i’m a grown married woman, sometimes i feel like a high school girl…my grandfather died today, i’ve been crying for hours…the power went out at work and ironically, it was the highlight of my day…i’m pregnant, holy shit…i’m in paris and in love…they think dad had a stroke…i miscarried our baby today…mom graduated from college last weekend…i am running away…tonight we kissed in the rain…

4 thoughts on “dear diary

  1. I just teared up reading that. I have a bookcase almost full of those kind of books. Some of the thoughts and hopes within break my heart a little and some of them warm me up. Thanks for sharing and reminding me what I need to get back to again… and again… and yea.

  2. Beautiful. I have so, so many pretty little books that I’ve been filling up, literally, since I was nine years old. Not that there’s much brilliance in them, but I truly believe besides Dorian that they’re what I would want to save in that hypothetical housefire scenario.

    Thanks so much for sharing this.

  3. :sigh: I do this, too. And I carry my journals in my gigantic purses most of the time. However, they end up turning into shopping lists and financial statements and budget worksheets. Twitter killed my journal. Whatever I write in my journal ends up going up on the blog.

  4. My favorite of those books is one that my grandmother gave me with I was 11. She knew I had started writing poetry and wanted me to have something to keep it all in. I still have it. The poetry is actually not bad considering my age … but it’s obvious to see the progression. Tween/Child-like in the beginning, and as I grew through high school it became more angsty and bitter (I had much to be upset about). I will always cherish it, as I think it tells more about me than any scrapbook could.

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