When I was 14-years old, I started a diary. It coincided with the beginning of high school. I was a fresh-faced “minor niner” and suddenly, my world became a lot more interesting. There were new friends, new crushes and of course, a new set of important tasks that almost overshadowed my education (where does one buy the perfect grunge-inspired plaid shirt to go with Revlon’s Blackberry lipstick?). And when I was happy, troubled or somewhere in the middle, I wrote.
I wrote about my insecurities and my fears. I jotted down unsolicited opinions on everything from the length of a mean girl’s kilt to the blueness of my crush’s eyes. I wrote about my first boyfriend and my first heartbreak. And most of all, I wrote about my hopes for the future. I wrote about having a job I loved, exactly two sons (it was always my preference), and of course, meeting my prince in shining Burberry sunglasses. Funny how things work out, huh?
I wrote in a first, second, third…. seventh diary throughout my high school years and even into my first year of university. I can’t describe the sense of relief I felt as I unloaded my feelings. My diary didn’t judge me, offer unsolicited advice or spill my secrets. It was a form of much needed therapy through a period of angst and personal discovery. …
P.S. I’ve made the monumental decision to spend every evening watching holiday specials with the boys. Hence, if you find me MIA on social media this week, it’s because I’ve treated myself to a peppermint hot chocolate, fuzzy pink slippers, and two boys who believe in the magic of Christmas. Sounds like the perfect way to savour the season!