Ashen Memories

I got my first diary on Christmas Day, 1986. It had a tiny lock and key, and I kept both my precious and disturbing thoughts in there. I was only eight, and already keeping some dark secrets. Writing became an outlet for me as I reached puberty; I would write sad poetry about being an outcast, and make promises to myself that I would change my dark moods and bossy temperament. When I was bullied in junior high, it was my journaling and my love of New Kids on the Block (LOL!) that got me through.

Once I hit high school, my mom found it necessary to read one of my diaries. When she confronted me with it, I was horribly embarrassed and humiliated. I started hiding my writing, but inevitably, she would find it, using 'cleaning' or 'looking for something' as an excuse. Finally, out of frustration, I burned some of the writing, because it seemed as if that was the only way to keep my mother's prying eyes out of it. When I moved away to college, there were no more worries. I would unabashedly tell all about my partying, my slightly obsessive crushes on guys, my sexual curiosities, my friends. Everything.

After my first year at school, I returned home for the summer. I had gained about 20lbs from my fast food and alcohol diet- something that shocked me, but my family as well. I guess my mom took that and some other signs (like my new nose ring and my cigarette habit) and decided she needed to find out what was really going on at school. So, once again, she found my diary, and confronted me with it. My reaction was no different this time around. I was humiliated, and did nothing but hang my head and sob. I felt such a huge betrayal. She had done it again. Didn't she know that if we had a good relationship, she could have talked to me about it? Didn't she know that invading my privacy would only cause me to isolate myself from her more? Didn't she know that I wasn't a bad kid? I seemed like an angel in comparison to a lot of the students I knew.

I returned to school for my second year, and my visits home became shorter and less frequent. I still kept a journal, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to actually vent inside it's pages. I didn't feel like it was safe to get my feelings out on paper anymore. Gradually, as I separated myself more from my mom, and sought out a counselor, I was able to write again.

Then, at age 20, after being formally diagnosed with depression, I met my ex-husband. After a whirlwind courtship, and my decision to become a Jehovah's Witness, I dropped out of university to become a good JW wife. The night my ex 'proposed,' (I use quotation marks because I bought my own wedding ring, there was no engagement ring, no formal 'will you marry me?') he had a little ceremony that included burning all of my journals that came before him. Years worth of memories turned to ashes in minutes. I remember thinking to myself, "what am I letting him do??"

Today, at 27, I have dozens of spiral notebooks filled with raw emotion, experiences, and recollections. I have pages and pages of writing saved on my computer, and now, I blog. I have a love hate relationship with what I write. I love to do it, I can't not do it, but at the same time, I can be so critical and over analytical about it. I wish that I had something more concrete than just memories, to look back on. As time passes, memories can fade, and I feel there's a piece of my life missing. While there's no use in regret, I can't help but wish I had kept my treasured journals. They were snapshots in time that I set ablaze, in an effort to cope with life.