When I was 10 years old I was given this little pink diary for Christmas. I had no idea then just how significant a role this little book (and the dozens more that would follow) would play in my life. As a 10-year-old, I wasn’t even really sure how to keep a diary. All the books I’d read about diaries usually involved extreme situations and I was no Anne Frank. Often times I would just write “It’s late, I gotta go!” as I climbed in bed for the night. But it got me into the habit of writing and before long, I was spilling my guts onto the pages. Through the years I relied on my journal as a place where I could vent my frustrations, share my ideas and express myself without worrying about anyone else’s reaction.
My journals are one of my treasured possessions because they are like little time-machines that transport me to different moments in my life. Some of the things I’ve written bring back happy memories, and other things fill me with angst. Sometimes it even seems like I’m reading the thoughts of a stranger. It makes me realize how much people can change as they go through life, and how various experiences can alter your attitude or opinion about things.
I plan on sharing some excerpts from my journals because I think they can give a more accurate picture of how I was feeling or managing things at the time. Like this one, where I was kinda freaking out about my upcoming bone graft surgery.
Tuesday, January 29th 1991
A week from today I will be in the hospital. By now (10:07pm) I should be out of the operation room maby even out of pain! I could only dream! Im sort of looking forward to it but I’m worried about the pain mostly. Do you think I’m crazy or not because I am looking forward to it? Mommy bought a bunch of valentines decorations for me to make while recovering. I hope I will be on the seventh floor with the older kids but on the sixth floor I’ll only have to stay 2 days. If I go on the 7th floor I’ll have to stay longer. I might think about staying on the 7th floor for 2 days or more but I am hoping to come home early so I will get to feel better with my family.
I read this now and find it sort of funny how I was obsessing over which floor I was going to be on. It wasn’t like I had a choice. As if they’d wake me up after the operation and say “Hey, you want to be on the 6th floor with the babies or the 7th floor with the cool kids?” According to my diary, I got to come home after 2 days. I didn’t write anything about what floor I was on (it’s unlikely I was even aware at the time anyway). Because my mom got me supplies (paper doilies, red and pink paper, stickers and metallic heart confetti, to be specific) to make Valentines while I rested, I’ve since associated Valentine’s day with that sluggish post-surgery recovery feeling. How romantic.
I’ll leave you with a more typical diary entry from my 11-year-old self: