THE DIARIST CONFESSIONS
Betraying My Fantasy For Reality
When I saw my diary in her hands, I sobbed at the hurt running like wildfire through my veins
How it all started, April 16 2024
I have no desire to walk into a house, especially the bathroom and rummage through personal stuff. Some things are private, like a diary.
When I turned sixteen, I was gifted a beautiful diary that I treasured. My diary held the most intimate thoughts of sadness, happiness and everything else. As a typical teenager who felt nobody understood or loved me, I started writing in my diary because I had no one to talk to. Scrap that I chose not to speak to anyone, except a circle of friends I hung out with.
I lived in a cruel, poverty-stricken world where the daily suffering and grind do not allow for whimsical things like emotions.
I fell in love (OK, it was a crush) with a man who was ten years older than me. He was my friend’s older brother’s friend, and was the first person to compliment my lips (lips I was teased about all my life). Is it any wonder I fell in love? I ensured I followed him wherever he went. Mary’s little Lamb had nothing on me. Yes, I know, today it is the equivalent of stalking, but I loved him.
Romance novels were my outlet and my fantasy life from the stark reality of living. I read them as if I was employed to do so, and in all the characters, I saw myself and him. My diary became filled with explicit scenes conjured up in my mind about how he would make love to me.
I lived in a cruel, poverty-stricken world where the daily suffering and grind do not allow for whimsical things like emotions.
The Betrayal:
My late Mother wanted to know what was happening in my life, and I was not telling her anything. She feared I would come home pregnant and, heaven forbid, drop out of school. One day, when I was out, she enlisted the help of my sibling and off they went on a mission to Find the Diary.
Your worst fears come to the fore when you read this in a teenager’s diary:
“He undressed her slowly, all the while kissing her neck and the top of her breasts. Her nipples, hidden by the lacy bra, were yearning for his touch. His hands deftly unhooked her bra while his mouth moved downward, hovering. Then he bent his head and slowly started licking her nipple, which became even harder. Suddenly, he sucked, and a low moan of desire came out of her mouth. Her body arched, silently inviting him to explore lower- all of it…”
I came home that afternoon to my Mom’s insistence that we talk. I rolled my eyes, and ignored her, until she produced my diary from behind her and held it in her hands.
My diary became filled with explicit scenes conjured up in my mind about how he would make love to me.
I felt betrayed, angry, embarrassed and vulnerable. Vulnerable that my innermost thoughts laid bare, exposed to uninvited eyes.
“Are you having sex with this man?” She demanded to know.
“No,” I answered, refusing to elaborate further.
“You’re lying.”
“You must be because why would you write, “His hand moved up my thigh, parting my legs,” She asked.
“I made it up.” I cried.
She spent hours questioning me, pleading for the truth.
I spent those same hours feeling hurt and betrayed, because the anger had left a while back.
Eventually, she stopped because she was tired of not getting through to me.
When she left the room, I lifted my head and saw my diary on the table. I hesitantly picked it up, and, one page at a time, I meticulously tore through my thoughts and fantasies.
The closeness I felt for my diary was gone. The bond was broken, along with my heart. Scattered bits of paper were strewn all over the table. The fantasy of making love and marrying my crush was gone in minutes, relegated to the dustbin.
The innocence of my fantasies was never my reality, only confirmation of my ability to write.
Have you ever had someone read your diary?
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