How My Diary Made Me Quit Writing

Before today, if you asked me if I ever carried a diary, I would've told you no. And I would've believed it.

Thing is, I used to have a diary— I just forgot I did. Actually, it's more like I tried to wipe it from my memory.

I remember how it looked. It was a pink mini-notebook. It either had a striped or floral design. Across the top of it in black permanent marker was the word "Private". I can't recall if my name was on the outside or inside. I guess it doesn't really matter. It was a Christmas present and I would write in it my feelings, how my day went and how I felt about other people.

This diary of mine was really special to me, but I should have known better than to bring it to school. I was in the 4th grade, you see. A time in an adolescent's life where her classmates can quickly become her enemies.

One particular enemy was a girl I didn't particularly like or hate. She was Latina and was one of the popular kids because of how pretty she was. Let's call her Inez. We didn't really hang out together, but every now and then she would tease me because we shared some of the same classes. For the most part, I tried not to hang out with her. It ended up happening anyway.

When I had my diary, I felt secure in my voice and my writing. It was amazing to write an entry and then proudly read back the words I printed, not realizing that the art had become one of my burgeoning passions. Yet something I was very aware of was my feelings for a certain boy in my grade. We had different homeroom teachers so we didn't typically share classes, but whenever we lined up to switch classes or prepared for recess, I would see him in the hall and I'd timidly stare at him, my little heart softly beating out my pledge of love to him.

What did I find so appealing about him? And if we didn't even share classes, why did I harbor such strong feelings for him?

It's because I saw him as an equal— an intellectual equal. He was the first boy I had ever met who was as smart as, if not smarter than, me. He was African-American, dressed nicely and he seemed tamer than the other boys in comparison. He was my token 'Good Boy', someone I could've taken home to my mother (you know, if we were older). Let's call him Aaron.

My fascination and adoration of my equal grew so much that I expressed my feelings for him in my diary. It wasn't even a page long, but my feelings for Aaron were exposed through the ink. That alone made my diary all the more precious.

It also should have been an indicator of never leaving it unattended.

Only a few moments... I left it on the cafeteria table for only a few moments. It was mean of her, but I should've known better. At this point in my life, I can't remember what dragged me away from my precious diary, but I can remember the drop of my heart as Inez and a group of kids gathered around her as she read the entry I had foolishly left my diary on.

My private profession of love to Aaron was being ridiculed by people who didn't know me, who weren't my friends. Even as I cried and demanded it back, Inez laughed in my face and taunted the book in front of me. I didn't get it back until she threw it on the ground, giggles trailing behind her.

It was horrible, it was embarrassing. My privacy had been invaded and my little heart couldn't take it. Yet nothing hurt as much as the false rumor that spread about.

They said that I was in love with the other Aaron.

I wanted to cry. I didn't love that Aaron. I loved my Aaron. But I couldn't correct them. I would be even more embarrassed if he found out I liked him in such a way.

The rumor was horrible. I had to live with the fact that the Aaron I didn't like (but I secretly knew liked me) thought I liked him. I couldn't tell him the truth because I was too nice and too shaken to do anything. Yet every time we had class together or happened to look at each other, the teasing would start and I would want to hide away from the world.

Because of that rumor, I never told my Aaron how I felt about him. I threw away my diary and Inez became one of the first people I ever despised. Thinking back, I realize why I empathized so much with Harriet in the 1996 movie, "Harriet the Spy".

Now that I think about it, once I threw away my diary, I threw away an opportunity to realize that writing would one day be my life goal. It was a small step, but up until my diary, all I wrote were little poems that my mom would proudly post on the refrigerator door. The diary was an early indication of what could have turned into blogging or storytelling. However, I was so frightened by my thoughts being revealed when I wasn't ready for them to be revealed that it had me discard my writing.

I went back to reading and at some point I made myself believe I wanted to become a businesswoman. Even though I continued to write poems and was lucky enough to work on my first newspaper in middle school, I never saw it as a career choice and I missed the opportunity to better my writing. It wasn't until college that I realized writing was more than just a passion. It's my life.

I don't keep a diary anymore. And even though I have this blog, I don't really post that often because it can become more dangerous than a diary. Anybody can click on the link to one of my blogs and read my thoughts. I can't retract anything once it's been published on the internet, forever here to stay.

Thing is, I am smarter than my younger counterpart. I understand what I can and can't publish. In order to protect my heart (and reputation), I don't expose too many of my emotions. I don't type words that can be used against me. I simply tell the truth.

I'm almost 20 now. I've moved far away from that 2003 incident. I am Facebook friends with Aaron. Even though I choose to not love him because of the distance between us, I still adore him. He remains one of the smartest guys I know. He's funny and he's a writer, like me. He mostly pens poems, but I'm sure he can do more than that if he wanted.

Will I ever confess to him? No. I don't think so. We went to the same high school for two years, but when I finally found the courage to introduce myself to him, he barely remembered me. We're more familiar now, but what's the point? It's ancient history and nothing will happen between us if I did. My memories are my diary now, and in my mind, they truly are "Private".

Once upon a time, my diary made me quit writing. But writing is like a boomerang— it always comes back to me.

Never be afraid to do what you love.

Signing off,

DesieDeep