Part 1: Moving out of 34 Westbrook – Items found.

3 Jul

We are in the process of moving house (will save that for the next post!), but I literally found piles and piles of my old diaries the other day. Admittedly,  upon reflection only one phrase can describe these diaries = cringe-worthy.

I wrote an entry for every day of my summer holidays, from year 4 – until year 12. I wrote a travel diary for every family holiday and overseas adventure.  I still do it. I wrote an entry for every birthday since I was 9. I still do it. Every time someone pissed me off,  I had a special diary which I would write down what I was feeling. Yes, I still even do that.

Diary writing is a compulsive part of my life. It has been since I can remember.  There is something about writing in a diary that is comforting. I guess, that is why so many psychologists recommend it. It is an accessible outlet, that puts things into perspective. Once forced to transform unsystematic thoughts into words, it can bring an immediate sense of clarity.

Pubescent frustration – Unable to express myself in meaningful words , I turned to scribbling my name and random questions; ‘Why me?’ , ‘Why won’t mum let me?”. Erratic, pressing down hard on the paper,  making holes, tears smudging the page. It made me feel better.  Some people draw, some people run, others box a bag…still… to this day,  I just write my dairy.

Mixed opinions surround  ‘diary writing’ . What’s the point? Why write, if no one reads it?  What could you possibly be writing about when you are 10? Yes, the above questions could be true….but, I would document what my mum cooked for  dinner, play dates with my friends and later on my encounters with boys and new drinking games I had learnt.  I believe it is one of the few things in life someone can truly and honestly do for themselves, no other agenda, no other incentive…just for themselves.

By reading them I was being transported back to my 15 year old self. It was a bizarre feeling.  Did I really write this? What the hell was I thinking? How could I even be worried about this?

Now, at this point in my life it all seems so trivial. So irrelevant. But back then, they were obviously real issues that were bothering me.

I will never forget the raw emotions when my sister found my diary and keep dropping in quotes from it for days after…’My first kiss was with Rooster, it was terrible, didn’t realise kissing was so sloppy” …I was taunted for weeks.

Now, I must decide what to do with these boxes and boxes of dairies…First thought is to destroy, destroy, destroy. Do, I want people reading (laughing) at this entries when I die? (morbid I know, and I guess I won’t be around to feel humiliated…but still). However,  I feel by throwing these out I will be losing documentation of my thoughts, fears and experiences throughout the years. For now…I think I’ll just keep them…and continue to add to the pile…

OK, enough…I better go and write my diary.

Yours Truly,



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