Dear Diary

I remember when I was a young 12 year old girl how I had a diary. It was something that you did back then. Mine had a gorgeous emerald green alligator-type cover and a lock on the cover. It made a reassuring 'click' when locked and I felt comfort knowing that my words were safe.

I wish I could be that naieve now. Forty and a few years later I long for that security. For the simple times of confessing only to ink and paper that I cheated on the math test (because I was so fearful of failing it) or how I wish Craig would look at me and really see me...

I learned soon after writing in my book that nothing is sacred. Mothers and sisters are vultures waiting for the sick and dying to let their eyes glaze over for a moment and then swoop in for the kill. I don't know who opened my diary, who read the words meant only for my eyes and heart.

Although I loved my mother as I was supposed to I don't think she loved me back or loved me as much as I needed then. I know she read my book and I know she could not understand how easily I had put my emotions out.

I have a small collection of blank lined books purchased through the years. I thought I would write down my musings, my feelings give me somewhere to share without being heard.

Here is the irony...I'm not concerned about writing on the Internet. Or having a stranger or two skim through here. I guess that's why I've written it. I find comfort in the anonimity in the sea of words who could find mine?

I feel safe here and amazingly peaceful. Perhaps I'll write again.