Part 8 - A Diary Of Sorts
At age eight we moved to a new town, still in Missouri. My dad began staying with his mother in Iowa during the week in order to attend a junior college and came home only on weekends. During one of those weekends I received my first diary as a gift from my dad. It was pink, with a Precious Moments character on the cover, and it fascinated me. The very thought of having something private, something personal that was mine and mine alone intrigued me. It was a tempting idea, luring me into its grasp, but it didn't last long.
Soon after receiving the diary I realized it wasn't safe. There was no lock, and even if there had been, I wouldn't have stood up to my mom had she demanded to view my entries. I gave up my longing to write openly and instead began to write what I thought would please my mom. For example, the following is an actual entry dated April 15, 1992:
"Today I had library. It was boring! After that we had computers! I got my name in the Hall Of Fame! Today was exciting!"
However, one night, after years of struggling with the knowledge that my own treatment at home was not normal, I decided to be honest. My mom had gotten upset, and while I don't remember the specific details of what happened, I know it was painful. In anger, I scrawled out an entry to an older self that I hoped would someday read and remember what had happened. However, I so feared my mother's finding my diary that I later went back and erased the entry, replacing it with one more in line with my mom's desires. Still, the deep, angry pencil lines I'd written could not be entirely erased, so parts of the entry are still visible, and tucked neatly away near the binding of my journal are years-old bits of eraser. Here, quoted as best I can make out, is what remains of that night's anger:
"Mom beat me! She doesn't even care the least about me. Never forget them! Never forget the beatings she gave you!"
That night, May 12 of 1993, at the age of eight all of my inner turmoil spilled out onto the 4" x 5" page of my personal journal. Soon, those angry words were erased and covered with a journal entry of a similar nature to the first one I quoted. After all, life was good, my anger forgotten, and the family secret was once more safe.
Soon after receiving the diary I realized it wasn't safe. There was no lock, and even if there had been, I wouldn't have stood up to my mom had she demanded to view my entries. I gave up my longing to write openly and instead began to write what I thought would please my mom. For example, the following is an actual entry dated April 15, 1992:
"Today I had library. It was boring! After that we had computers! I got my name in the Hall Of Fame! Today was exciting!"
However, one night, after years of struggling with the knowledge that my own treatment at home was not normal, I decided to be honest. My mom had gotten upset, and while I don't remember the specific details of what happened, I know it was painful. In anger, I scrawled out an entry to an older self that I hoped would someday read and remember what had happened. However, I so feared my mother's finding my diary that I later went back and erased the entry, replacing it with one more in line with my mom's desires. Still, the deep, angry pencil lines I'd written could not be entirely erased, so parts of the entry are still visible, and tucked neatly away near the binding of my journal are years-old bits of eraser. Here, quoted as best I can make out, is what remains of that night's anger:
"Mom beat me! She doesn't even care the least about me. Never forget them! Never forget the beatings she gave you!"
That night, May 12 of 1993, at the age of eight all of my inner turmoil spilled out onto the 4" x 5" page of my personal journal. Soon, those angry words were erased and covered with a journal entry of a similar nature to the first one I quoted. After all, life was good, my anger forgotten, and the family secret was once more safe.
posted by Brooke | 11:52 PM
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