Dear Diary

Why don't people keep diaries anymore? And why is there such a stigma against the word "diary." I suppose because it has some sort of association with those cutesy Hello Kitty diaries with the big lock on them that you keep when you're 6 years old and the most exciting thing you have to write about is what you had for breakfast.

I've been keeping diaries since I was 7, and yes, the first one did have some sort of Japanese cartoon character on the front. That one is mostly filled with recollections of play dates with people I didn't like, secret crushes (which changed weekly), teachers that were mean to me, or something annoying my brother did (like steal all my silly putty and clump it together in one big ball - Thanks, Al). Eventually the little neon green book ran out of space, or I supposed I grew out of it.

I had some social issues in middle school (who doesn't?), and my nutritionist-turned-therapist suggested I start keeping a journal. A journal? Is that like a diary? Yes, she said, it's just like a diary but it's for young adults. So she handed me a hard covered journal with a wall-paper like flower pattern on the front, and a ribbon on the inside to serve as a bookmark.

It took me about 1 year to fill it, from 8th grade to 9th grade. When it was filled I bought another, and when that one was filled, I bought another. Before I knew it, I had a stack of 5 journals under my mattress. They were filled with thoughts on rocky friendships, casual hook-ups, drunken escapades, and of course first loves. I printed out AIM conversations, emails from people, pictures - and I stuck them in the pages. I wrote notes and phrases on the inside cover. They were filled with pieces of me, just as any journal should be.

I tried to keep this up throughout college, but I was just too busy and I never wrote regularly. When I go back and read the entries (which is incredibly amusing and fascinating, especially with the earlier journals), it seems like I was always apologizing for not writing more often. But I realized that as I got older, I stopped caring about the things I used to write about. I became more comfortable with myself and I didn't need a journal to spill my guts to. If I was mad at someone, I told them. If I had a crush on someone, I acted on it. If I got drunk, I didn't remember enough to re-hash it out. Or, I did write while I was drunk and my handwriting was too sloppy to make out a complete sentence.

I still keep a journal, and I write in it every month or so. Most of the entries are just summaries, catching my future self up with my current life. I know that I will cherish these journals more than anything when I read them over and over on my death bed at the age of 107, but for now it's just comforting to know I have the option to write in something that nobody will see but me.