Hello. Hello! Hello?

I saw a post today about how traumatic it was and still is for people whose diaries had been read by others when they were young. Diaries are supposed to be sacred. Safe. Secure. But even if they came with a key — one of those very flimsy little, barely effective keys — they were easy to break into once found. We didn’t have access to good hiding places because others were in charge of the spaces we inhabited, but no one was supposed be be in charge of our inner spaces except us. We still should be, but even if others didn’t violate the sanctity of our secret writings, of our messages to ourselves, of our cries into the void, or for the “real” parents or true friends we hoped were out there, we felt those expectations stalking and sometimes policing the halls of the prisons we had created for ourselves. We locked ourselves up to protect ourselves. It didn’t matter if we acted out and misbehaved in trite or creative ways, or if we walked quietly with our heads hung down, we were still held captive by what was spoken or left unspoken. The unspoken expectations that became known to us only when we failed to meet the mark, failed to do what we had no idea was required — why wouldn’t anyone explain!? — were the worse, and they never stopped coming. There were no tribal rituals to ready us for the next stage of life. No wise woman in a hut who could teach us to honor our innermost selves.

And yet, there were those of us who longed for someone, anyone to read our diary. We didn’t worry about our words being judged. We believed, we hoped they would act like magic incantations, that once seen the words would glow golden upon the page and make the world see us as we only dared to dream of seeing ourselves.