I look back on my life of almost fifty years and try to remember the many times I have started a diary. Not once, not once have I managed to keep it up for more than two or three days. I just couldn’t think about anything to write, no matter how interesting my days was.
Back then I wrote quite a lot, but never about my life. I escaped in fantasy stories that I wrote for my essay assignments for school. Those were the stories I wanted to write and did. I didn’t want to tell a diary about getting up in the morning, getting dressed, going to school, watching a hot boy from a distance or coming home and doing my homework. Those were my teen years, until when I became a mom. Then I started a diary…
The diary I started was not for myself. From the moment I knew I was pregnant I wrote down everything – how I felt, what the doctor said, how big my tummy was. When my daughter was born, I wrote down things she did. Her first smile, first tooth, first word, first step. All the first and seconds and thirds were in a book. Three books actually, which became her property on her twenty-first birthday. I did the same for my son, but those books are still in my possession, for various reasons.
Back in 2012 when I had a burnout, I started seeing a psychologist. She told me to keep a diary of my feelings and my thoughts. I couldn’t. Even though I knew it would help me to heal, I just couldn’t. I sat staring at the page or wrote down one sentence: I have to keep a diary. I never got past that one sentence and eventually gave it up.
It was only when I started this blog six and a half years ago that I more or less started keeping a diary. Not a daily diary, but a diary of sorts. I came to learn that I cannot write about things that happened today. Somehow I first have to sort thoughts in my mind, distance myself from what has happened and only then can I put it in words. Sometimes it takes weeks for me to write about a playdate we had. I just need to process thoughts and feelings as I tend to experience everything quite intensely.
I wonder if there’s anyone else who recognizes this? Who has to process what happened before you can write about it?
Maybe this was the reason why all those years back I couldn’t write about what happened during my day. I always had the urge to write, but there’s definitely a difference between writing fact or fiction.
Dear Diary… those are words I will never write, but I will keep on writing about my experiences over here.
© Rebel’s Notes
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