I think I want to start something, although I am more than hesitant. This journey will probably be profoundly humiliating, deeply personal, and utterly cringing for not only myself, but probably family members and friends.
On my ninth birthday I received a diary as a gift. I don’t remember who gave it to me, but whoever did should know this present stirred my creative juices and sparked what is known today as my writing ability. I say this in jest. I don’t claim to be some fantastically creative writer. I don’t have a crazy imagination, nor do I think most of my writings are interesting. Suffice it to say, this diary holds my first entries, and thus, my introduction to a world that I believe I have, at the very least, gotten to know better than I did 19 years ago (at least, god, I hope so).
As humiliating as I’m certain this will be, I think I’m going to share these writings with the online world. Stupid, some might say. My thought is, if nothing else, it will be enjoyable for my friends to laugh at, educational for parents to (possibly) understand what their young daughters are going through, and insightful for people to understand why I am who I am today.
For naysayers, please comment. Maybe I need some sense kicked into me 🙂
This diary has smelled the same since the day I received it – like baby powder. I don’t know how, but to this day, after several moves, odd storing places, and different climates, the light scent of baby powder still lingers on every page. There is a locket on the side, although I have no idea where the key is. For the time I’ve had the diary, I’ve just kept it hidden in drawers or under my mattress to keep it safe; no lock necessary.
Below are images of the front, inside cover, and first “insert” page. The outside is pretty plain, but makes no mistake about what the book is, so if anyone were to stumble upon it, they’d know instantly it is a diary for a young girl; also signified by the first insert page with the pastel picture of the girl, flowers, and butterfly. My mom took the liberty of writing my name, address, and phone number on the front page. I remember owning a label maker when I was younger, and obviously, I felt my mom’s writing would not suffice, so I also labeled my name on the opposite side. To protect myself and people in my past, I will be blacking out any identifying information, including most first names as those people are still in my life today.
So, here we go! I’ll post an image of the actual page, and type out what the text reads, including all misspellings and grammar issues.
Week: 3 (I never knew what I was supposed to write here. I often flipped back and forth between what week of the month it was and just leaving it blank because I thought I was writing the wrong thing)
I selabratted my BirthDay and my Boyfriend came to it too! It was alot of fun we broke a pinuata and played barbe. My BirthDay is on the 22th of April. this year it was on a sunday and we had it on the 21st I was named after my Ant her name is Roxane.
There is a line on the bottom of each page that reads, “The secret of success is constancy of purpose.” For some reason, I sign my name underneath this line of text on the bold line of the page decoration. I’m almost certain I didn’t understand what this meant, and thought that I was supposed to sign it as a promise to keep my diary entry a secret.
Yep, at 9, I was a Scripps Spelling Bee champ in the making, j/k. I don’t remember this birthday very well. I remember breaking a pinata at more than one of my birthday parties, and during one in particular I made all the kids throw the candy back onto the ground, in a pile after the pinata had busted open so that we could “sort the candy evenly.” One of my not-so-fond memories. My family video taped that party, and I watched it several years ago, which only proved to me that even at a young age, I was always fair and organized, but also incredibly bossy and demanding.
I don’t remember who my “boyfriend” was either. I can only guess it was a boy named Garrett who lived up the road from my family, or the only other Catholic child in my neighborhood, Jesse, who lived across the street from us. We lived in Utah; we were surrounded by Mormans, and while I mostly despised Jesse, I thought for some reason we had a bond because we were different than all the other neighborhood kids. When they were all at church, Jesse would come over and play with my brothers. There was another boy in my neighborhood I regularly called my boyfriend, his name was Brandon. His hands, arms, legs, and neck were covered in burn scars from where a babysitter placed him a scalding hot bath as a baby. I can recall him coming to one of my birthday parties and being overly excited to see him there. Whether or not it was this birthday, I don’t know.
One thing I didn’t acknowledge in my entry is that I was named after two of my aunts. My first name comes from my dad’s sister, and my middle name, my mom’s. For some reason I never liked my middle name. I think it’s because it was so unusual a name that after telling people what it was the first time, they always made me repeat it a second and sometimes a third time, which made me uncomfortable. I will not divulge what my middle name is here, online.
So, that was the first entry. I’ve read ahead and some of these will definitely to be lame, but I think it’s possible that writing out certain memories will be somewhat therapeutic.