Hypocrisy At Its Finest (Or: Why I Can’t Keep a Journal)

11 Jul

Honesty time: I have never been able to keep a journal. I still have my first one: 200 pages, half empty and covered in happy birthdays, happy New Years, and doodles, encased in fake purple crocodile skin. I started writing in when I was in third grade, when it was gifted to me by my mother.

My first entry was an introduction to my life and family, which was then comprised of my mother, my then-stepfather, and my 1 year-old sister Claire. I remember reading it proudly to my mother; interestingly, that was the last time I’ve ever shared my journal entries up until now. I was a precocious child, the one who was more comfortable talking to doctors and orthodontists than kids her own age. I loved journals, but I couldn’t bring myself to mar their perfectly blank pages.

After a few entries, my journalism petered out. I only wrote when I was angry, usually at my mother. Once she was so mad at me that she unscrewed my door from its hinges for a week. I had no privacy, which was a big deal for an angsty 8 year-old. I wrote “I have a sister. This is HELL” and circled it. I thought I was a big deal 🙂 I eventually got my door back, and everything sorted itself out.

After a few years of the purple crocodile journal, I decided to modernize and chronicle my adventures in a word document. Keep in mind, this was middle school, the time where everyone “finds themselves” prior to the Second Great Awakening of high school.

Sometimes I dread high school, and sometimes it can’t come soon enough- a chance to start over, to be someone new. I’ll still be that shy girl in the corner, but I’ll have bangs, and a messenger bag instead of that stupid backpack, and who knows, maybe I’ll succumb to peer pressure and modern teen culture and wear makeup. A brand new me.

And a personal favorite:

Oh, the good old times. When children of all ages and genders could play together without becoming corrupted with the hormones that plague us all 24/7. Don’t you remember? Tag and climbing that little metal half-dome and getting pea gravel in our shoes? Icebreakers, Kooky pens, and fat caterpillars in our desks? God, I miss those days. I loved those days. Half the time I didn’t even take a second glance at the state of my hair or what clothes I’d shoved on that morning.

Wow, how cliche! So yeah, I was pretty angsty. And I knew nothing about makeup…what a shocker, am I right? 😉 Reading through this makes me cringe, but I don’t want to delete it. It’s a piece of history for me; it’s not a glamorous one, but it reminds me where I came from. I kept that journal fairly religiously from the spring of 8th grade to the spring of 9th, and I wrote about everything. That document was my 30-page-12-point raft. I was sarcastic and funny and honest. I typed out everything that I couldn’t articulate. That journal helped me through a difficult time in my life, and I’m grateful to have had it.

Eventually I stopped writing because it was becoming a chore. I could keep myself afloat without it. I’ll never be one of those people who can write about what I had for dinner, and that’s ok. I can’t keep a journal.

Looking back, I reflect on my finer moments and realize how inconsequential they were in the grand scheme of things. Keeping a journal didn’t help me sort out my feelings, it just contributed toward the self-righteous attitude I held toward almost everyone in my tween years. But it helped me say what I needed to say, even though it was only to a couple of pages and a screen.

Purple crocodile in the flesh:


First entry:


Complaining about the mother, as per usual:


This adorned the cover. Classy, I know.


Ah, finally, decent handwriting! My new year’s resolutions for 2009:


Someday I’ll look back on this and think, how stupid of me, to fill those blank, perfect pages with line after line of whining, sobbing, head-buried-in-the-sand teenager lamentation. But for now…for now, these pages are all I have to remind myself of who I am.

~Sunday, March 27th, 11:45 PM (circa 2011)

Past me was rather prophetic (and melodramatic), don’t you think?

Do you keep a journal/diary? Is it as embarrassing as mine? 😉 Cheers!


2 Responses to “Hypocrisy At Its Finest (Or: Why I Can’t Keep a Journal)”

  1. Phoebe July 11, 2013 at 6:08 pm #

    Your handwriting is perfect ❤

    • O July 11, 2013 at 6:09 pm #

      Coming from you that is a compliment:)

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