The Most Dangerous Books

         When I was about ten years old, my Aunt gave me a journal and a book for my birthday.

         The book became my favorite, and, unbelievably, still is my favorite book in the whole world even though its written for fifth graders.  The story inspired me, the author inspired me, so much that I felt compelled to put words on paper, and so the second part of my birthday gift certainly complemented the first.

         I started to write then.  I had misconceptions about journaling though. I figured that a journal must be grammatically free of errors, and should resemble the orderliness of Anne Frank's required reading. I thought my journal should be proper, as in a Bronte type of proper. My first mistake was my first journal: I completely missed the point of keeping one.

         I knew journals were supposed to be personal though. This I knew.

         Over the years, I continued writing. I filled book after book with the trials and tribulations of my tween years, then my adolescence, then my college years, then well into my adulthood.  Through the years and with the practice, I learned that journaling was a far more useful tool than I ever thought. Had a crazy day? Write it down; now it's over.  Pissed off at someone? Draw an obscene image of that person and use all the vulgarity you want.  Feeling blue? Write a really bad poem. Better yet, write two really bad poems. Write two terrible free-verse poems back to back if you so desire, because the product is not for anyone else's eyes but my own. This is what I told myself. This is what I kept in mind as I recorded my days like clockwork.

         Early on, I tried very hard to develop a habit of honesty when I wrote in my book. I wanted the prose I left behind on the unlined pages of the book to become a reflection of my world, my inner me.  I learned not to censor myself, not to worry about my handwriting, not to LIE to myself about what I may be in denial of or of whatever truth I knew. Finally, I allowed myself through the process to have an authentic Voice. And it was a voice only meant for my ears.

         On the few occasions that my journals were read by a trespasser, my life always was affected negatively, something I had and continue to have great resentment for. I remember a saying, something like, "If you read my journal and you find something in there that upsets you, you deserve every miserable moment." I still adhere to that sentiment, and now, as a mother of a ten year old boy, I respect his privacy.  I remember all too well how it feels when your innermost thoughts are invaded by people who tread where they ought not to.

         I kept secrets in there. I kept my misgivings, and self-loathing in there. My confessions of the worst kind were recorded, along with dates and times and even days of the week...my journals were always dangerous. Always red hot, and I joked that if they were published, then I would definitely have a bestseller on my hands.  I thought my life could be perceived as interesting, racy, and exciting, as long as the reader didn't know me personally. Actually, the word interesting is an understatement. I learned THAT fact much later in adulthood, shortly before I swore to myself that never again would I so much as write one single word in regards to my private inner life. In the aftermath that followed, I decided to banish my Voice forever.

         But I furiously missed the catharsis of the act. I missed the detailed recordings of my days, no matter how trivial...I once asked my good friend if she kept all of her journals and she told me that she burns them in fire once they are filled.  At the time, I thought that if I were to follow her advice that the destruction of the careful recording of my life would be like I committed an act of sacrilege.  But the inherent question I should have asked myself is, "Who will be your audience?" and, "Are you ever going to go back and read that old shit anyway? What purpose will it serve you then?"

         Sometimes, but hardly ever, I would go back into my old journals and re-read entries from years past.  I laughed at my adolescent concerns with fresh adult eyes. The complications of the past were a joke compared to my present realities.  Those thoughts I so earnestly committed to paper seemed so petty in retrospect...my crimes then were of the variety that would only get you reprimanded or grounded. They were run-of-the-mill- issues that come with growing into an adult. When my journal was read by my mother, under the pretense that my behavior was "concerning her" there would always be the inevitable fallout. And of course, I would always whoop and wail with the "You invaded my privacy!" argument I'd have with my snooping, prying mother.

         My mother: what a pain in my ass!  Such boundary issues!  Still to this day, she has issues with respecting privacy.  Fondly, I recall my practice, when I still lived under her roof; too young to have my own place, and my own privacy, I wrote her little notes in the tucked into the pages.  I directly addressed her, especially if I wrote a piece of particularly incriminating information.  I strove to shame her for reading what she knew she shouldn't be reading, the subjects of such I knew would upset her. There were passages written in extreme detail of sex with boyfriends. And also, missed periods. Such things mother's want to know about, but not really.  Past high school, there was no indication that she continued her prying. Today, I believe otherwise. I realize now, that nothing is more tempting to read than a handwritten confessional.

         Years passed and I kept my writing routine. I treated my written reflections as a form of therapy.  I became very good at recognizing things in myself I previously might ignore or deny. I stopped denying my nature. I wrote all internal going-ons down into the pages of the book. This proved to be a fatal practice: because it carried over into my adulthood, and into the debacle that became The Last Journal. It is in the Last Journal that the actual consequences of words never meant to be uttered sent me straight over the edge of my sanity, and in retrospect really should have sent me straight to a qualified psychiatrist's couch.

         "I read your journal." These words should be written on the foreheads of any human being who shares living quarters with someone who keeps a private book such as this.  This was the lesson I learned: journals are dangerous, you see. Especially the kind that I kept, because my life has always been fraught with controversy and secrets.  I wrote things down I couldn't even admit to myself, and therefore, any other person reading my words would be sure to judge me, to hate me, to want to leave me...which is exactly what happened when meddling eyes turned the pages of the Last Journal. I stopped writing because it ruined my life. My old life was destroyed by words I wrote down.  I felt so foolish. I realized that journaling was far too dangerous a practice for someone like me.  All because of my uncensored, unfiltered, rawness which I so carefully cultivated over the years. The Voice, the very essence of my Self betrayed me.  So when the shit hit the fan, I truly felt demoralized and dehumanized in a way I never expected to recover from.

         Then REALLY BAD THINGS happened. And more REALLY BAD THINGS. I chose to suffer through them, and I refused to record them; I refused to recount my days on paper. I denied my innermost thoughts a way to materialize into the form of words in any blank unlined book.  I sat on my thoughts. I choked my Voice until it stopped even wanting to be heard. Still, I do not journal. It is because of the inherent danger of the definite and guaranteed audience. The audience that knows me personally, the way in which I will be judged and damned.

         Last year, my husband bought me an iPad.  I thought that maybe I could journal in it. I knew it was far more safe to type the digital form of my journal than to scrawl content out by hand. A password was required. Brilliant! I started to record again, but quickly noticed that the caliber of the writing experience was not even close to the comforting practice of holding pen to paper. After an entry in my digital journal, I didn't feel the full satisfaction of seeing my prose written there...there was something missing...it was a desire unmet.

         Was it the act of handwriting itself? I believe that this is part of it.

         In grade school, I was taught perfect penmanship and cursive by sisters of the Roman Catholic Church. I took pride in the handwriting of my journals, and more often than not, it showed.  The digital form of journaling negated the desired effect, erased the personal quality of my sleight of hand, making my words seem far less potent.  It was as if the thoughts were coming out of a robot than out of my aching head.  I didn't like the difference, but it's a small price to pay for privacy, I told myself.

         I also realized a digital journal was a mere shadow of the sensory experience I craved.  Nothing compares to writing in an actual book with actual pages. I have always had a neurosis about the type of pen I used. The color of the ink never really mattered to me, only the ease in which it flowed from the pen onto the page. It was almost sexual, the way I formed my words on the pages. It satisfied me to turn the page and to keep going. Often, a journal entry would go on for pages, depending on my level of enjoyment on that particular day. There was none of this sensation with a digital journal. No satisfaction, and no sense of accomplishment or catharsis.

         But at least I knew my privacy wouldn't be violated. I knew that there was no other way to guarantee my safety and the sanctity of my mind without an electronic password...

         But I did not continue. I started, and then quit. Nothing about it was the same. And I simply have too much to lose now. If I can't be honest with myself in my own journal because of the deep fear of it being read, then there truly is no point to keeping one at all.

         Now, I keep my dangerous thoughts to myself. I keep my ugliness inside. When I used to write about my day to day life, my self-awareness was heightened.  I noticed how negative I could be not only to other people but also to myself. How could anyone love this person that is presented here? It's an honest question.

         And so this is why I stopped: I don't keep a journal because of the ugliness inside of me and I don't want anyone else to know what I am or what I am capable of.  Because clearly, based on the past breaches of trust, I am unloveable, and unworthy of being loved. I carry this with me, because I have no where else to put it.