It was Christmas morning 1997, I was 11 and I got my first diary, blue with Tweety bird on the cover complete with the cute little cheap lock and key. I instantly became addicted to sharing every thought and event in my life. It became my outlet when things went wrong and a time capsule for my favorite memories......It got me in trouble at times, but my books meant the world to me. I wrote and wrote filling up book after book until age 16 when I no longer had anything good to say....It was as if in my mind, if I didn't write it down then I didn't have to admit it happened. I was getting pulled down a path I knew was no good, but I didn't know how to stop it. I never wrote an entry since. It's been 14 years.
Even my best friends don't know what I've been through. It was easy to hide by falling off the grid for a while, but after so long not only is it hard to rekindle lost relationships, but it's hard to find the right time and a good enough reason to get the past off my chest. I love being honest and putting things out there, but to the people I'm closest to, I don't want them to think any differently of me. They know some things, but only the surface. So here I am, a wolf in a black sheep's clothing.
To be continued...
