Since I was about six years old, keeping diaries have been a part of life.
I suppose I should really call then journals, seeing as journalling aspects of my life was the primary purpose of these little notebooks that I kept so secret and jotted down everything and anything even remotely significant in.
My very first diary I got for christmas. It was yellow, had a tiny gold padlock and a picture of a fairy on it. This was before I could write much more then my own name, so instead i filled the little pocket sized volume with drawings. I wrote the name of the first boy I ever had a crush on in that diary, way back in year one of my new primary school.
Post yellow fairy, from the ages of nine to eighteen, i’ve meticulously kept journals. I have about five of them now, documenting life over the past nine years.
The reason I’m bringing this up is because today, while cleaning up a few things, I found my most recent journal under my bed. Up until the end of last year it was much of the same, writing entries nearly every day, obsessing over little dramas and problems, trying to work out what the future would hold.
Then, at about February of this year, I stopped using that diary as a regular journal, pretty much only writing something down when I couldn’t get it off my mind.
Today, I flipped through this particular volume, then sat down with a pen knife and destroyed it.
Memory is a funny thing. You sometimes forget things the way they actually happened. It either disappears completely, or you change things so that they are viewed in a different light. It’s a good thing.It’s healthy.
But flicking through my memories of the past two years was such a painful thing to do that it got to the point where I was thinking, i don’t want anyone else to ever see this and know the truth. I don’t want to ever have to remember any of this again.
So every single page has been torn to shreds and disposed of.
Dramatic perhaps. The majority of what I wrote was probably exaggerated by that same sense of teenage drama, but looking back at what i’d written, it just brought back a flood of misery and stress that made me feel quite sick.
Now, looking back on it all, it’s horrible to have to remember just how much I hated myself. Like, really honestly truly hated the person I was. It was everything, the way I looked- always so much uglier then the other girls, the way I acted around people, the dumb mistakes I made, just everything. I hated the way I talked, the way I felt, just everything felt so completely wrong and it made me so, so unhappy. Reading back the things I said and being confronted with that much self hatred and misery, it’s horrible.
And other memories too. Mainly revolving around my friends, of course. But again, there’s very little happiness there. Like when a girl I knew tragically passed away and I’d never felt more alone. My friends didn’t, and possibly wouldn’t understand. Maybe they didn’t realize just how difficult a time that was, maybe they realized and didn’t know what to do. I don’t know. All I know is that there was no shoulder to cry on, no one to turn to, and it was just the most painful thing to have to live through.
There was that time when our friendship group split in two, and then quickly became unbalanced. when three out of five of us went to hang out with a girl in the year above, the only way we could become one group again was to play by their rules. I hated it. I hated how they would bitch about people that I didn’t have a problem with, I hated how we couldn’t just be dorks anymore, how this older girl took a highly patronizing and scornful view of my objecting to these occurrences, and the unknowing way my other friends played along.
I can look back on the past two years and think of the times that I did enjoy, the times that made me happy and when life seemed okay, but all of those good times are just tainted by this horrible kind of stain that just serves to remind how unhappy I really was.
I wish it wasn’t.
Fuck the teenage years.