There are many things people hold dear in this life. It might be a family ring. Or a trinket from the first date. Mine? It is many, but they are the same thing. Each have their own design but same purpose. And I have kept every single one of them since I can remember.
They are my journals. Yes, that is my most prized possession. No one reads them without asking me first, or at least I hope they don’t. I kind of remember when I started keeping one.
My mom had just started moving us back into the city. I was going to start yet another school in the fall. I was not to afraid of not making friends cause it was something I was good at. So far in the house it was just me, mom and my uncle… whom my mom was the caretaker for. My parents where still broken up and my older brother was still living with my dad. No matter how much we wanted him to come home. It was a hard time cause I was a daddy’s girl and I was also a very angry little girl. So my mom put me into counseling.
Actually over the course of a couple years I had three. When I saw my first one she wanted me to keep a journal. She wanted to me write down how I felt, why I felt that way and what not. I have repressed a lot of memories so the details are a little hazy. But I wrote in it like my life depended on it.
As time went on I never stopped the habit. I wrote every chance I got. Sometimes I would get in trouble cause I was writing in my journal when I should have been doing chores, homework or going to bed. Writing in my journal was my second favorite thing to do, reading is my first. There have been times when I go months without writing. And it does effect my life.
Most of the time I can’t get across to people how I feel, or I am to afraid to tell them truly how I feel cause I don’t want them to look at me different. So my journal was my place to run to. The one place I went to where no one could hurt me and I could let it ALL out. I wrote about everything. Even about what I ate for that day. Boys I was crushing on and things my parents did that I didn’t like.
To make me feel a little better I wrote to someone, always the same person. Well they aren’t a real person. It just depended on what my journal looked like. One of them was Mr. Fuzzy cause my journal was fuzzy. It had three stripes on it, one of black, grey and an almost white one. I write in my journals from front to back. I even did something funky and wrote on one side then when I reached the end I flipped the book over and wrote upside down on the backs of the paper.
There were times where I felt like my journal was my only friend. Like when things in high school went down hill and no one was on my side. I turned to my journal. When my mom got married again, I turned to my journal. When I got married I went to my journal to talk about my fears, excitements and everything. When I got pregnant I wrote about that too. I even keep a journal for Monster, so when he is 18 and moves out I can give it to him. Or put it away so when I pass he can have it, I have not decided yet.
My journal has been the one constant in my life. And it will always be that way. So when people ask what my prized possession is I always say my journal. Cause it is where my deepest darkest secrets, desires and fears lay. I always say that when I am truly happy with my life, when I am at a point in my life where I love it then I will burn all of them, cause then that would mean that the past doesn’t have a hold on me anymore. But really, that day may never come and I am OK with that.