Part V of Wolverette’s 3rd Print Issue: “Diary”

Posted: April 13, 2010 in Past issues


I got a diary when I was nine years old. It was one of the typical gifts you would buy a little girl.
The covers were of a grey-blue something that felt a bit like velvet, it had a picture on front. I think it was a vase with flowers. And it had a little lock with a tiny key. I wrote almost daily. Mostly, well, the stuff a kid that age would write, what I had done that day.
Later I went on writing in a second diary since the 1st one was full. I named it „Thea“ cause I had always felt stupid writing „Dear Diary“, it was such a cliché. But still I felt like I had to write in it like I’d be writing letters to someone who’d listen. I can’t remember why I finally chose „Thea“. There were more diaries with names to come.
One I lost, never found it again. Another was burnt by me for most likely stupid reasons.
When I moved out from home I started a new diary. I hardly wrote in it, I thought it’s because I felt great and you feel more like writing your story down when it’s a depressing one.
When I did write in it though it was shit that really tore on my heart. Mostly because of my then-boyfriend. I stopped writing when I was twenty. Never read the words again in this diary after I had written them down.
Like 2 years later, a friend of mine saw a picture of me and my ex and said something like „you two look so happy“ and I had to tell her that it was a fake smile because I very well remembered that evening when the photo was taken and boy was it a terrible night. This made me pick up my diary again and reread it for the very first time. It was depressing. But also astounding.
I had become a whole of a different person since then. I identify myself with the me in my head, how I remember things in my head. But this memory is still tainted with the lack of knowledge from back then, even though I know it better now.
But reading my clearly formulated words (I would’ve never thought that I’d been able to express my feelings and impressions so clearly and nicely) made me feel different. It was more like me, the reader, was the author’s big sister sharing her soul. Big me read and felt the words but also with a bit more distance, having more experience and maybe a little more wisdom than little me. I suddenly recognized what „little sister“ really had been through, what she really survived. While the little 19 year old me that exists in form of my head’s memory and now, rediscovered as paper and ink, still sees the bad times as somewhat trivial. And me, now reading and communicating with „little sister“ sees more.
It scares me. Back then I wrote words down, not even realizing how depressing and violent the story is they form, now for the first time I can actually read their full content.
The words are powerful. You maybe never recognize it when you write them down, the really important words.
But it was shocking to read them. They also made me proud. That I had learned something, it also got me proud of the person I had become since then. I guess I can say I learned a bit about myself. I also saw that it was simply good that I wrote all that down.
Nevertheless I never continued this diary.
I once tried in holiday but what I wrote down there and what followed soon after is just a way too depressing combination to look at now.
Now I’m scared by the thought of leading a diary. At this time, being me. What’s happening is too dark, I feel like I don’t want these words fixated on paper, in my own handwriting. I’d rather want them to just go away.
Right now they are too mighty for me.
An old superstition says that burned books are the ones who will have the most power over you. Again, the power of the written word. If you destroy it you must fail.
So I choose my words carefully.
And even though it just might as well be my paranoia, right now I hope the world and things will change, so that I could write a whole new story and I fear if I write the story down the way it is now I’m gonna jinx it and things can’t be changed anymore.
And even though my fear might just look for an excuse to not write a diary again, maybe I am just ignoring it to make it bearable.
And even though so many of my words are unwritten that way, and even though this might be a mistake – I still write.
Not a diary.
But other things. Things that feel right telling somebody.


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