Chapter Nineteen: The Spy Diaries
Spies.
Yes, now that I am an adult, I see diaries for what they really are. Spies into the lives of young, unsuspecting daughters. When a mother gives a young girl a diary, she isn't giving her a gift, really. She's giving herself a tool by which she can spy into the unsuspecting daughter's life. It's a plant, a bug, a mindtap.
This honestly didn't occur to me when I gave my own daughter a diary. What occured to me then was that my diary had been such a source of therapy for me, a place where I could vent all of my secret frustrations, all of my passionate crushes. I could trust my diary. It wouldn't laugh at me, or scold me, or humilate me in any way. My first entry was so stream-of-consciousness and unedited:
Each of the entries following that first one talk about my friends, my school, my secret crush (David Savage), my deep feelings--well, as deep as they can be for a ten-year-old, which seemed pretty deep to me. In retrospect, I find it amazing that I wrote that "All I have been thinking about is David" in the same week that I brought my giant stuffed Easter bunny to sit next to me in school. But these were my feelings. These were the things I could remember to write about.
Still, I was cautious. I guess when you're ten, you still believe that your parents are somewhat omnipresent. And even though I didn't consciously write my diary with the intention of my mother reading it, I made concessions for the possibility that she would:
I spent much of today going back and forth between denial and grief. There were so many thoughts, so much left unsaid. I couldn't stand it. Each rememberance was a punch in the gut. What could I do now? Who did I have to talk to about this thing that had happened? After spending all of my life running from my mother, all I wanted now was to run into her arms.
If my mother could read my diary now, she would know all of my deepest thoughts. It seems so ironic to me that I tell these thoughts to the whole world, yet I haven't spoken to my mother in over eight years. Here they were, these thoughts for all the world to read, and she never knew them.
My comfort comes in believing that someday, when this is all over, it will all make sense.
Yes, now that I am an adult, I see diaries for what they really are. Spies into the lives of young, unsuspecting daughters. When a mother gives a young girl a diary, she isn't giving her a gift, really. She's giving herself a tool by which she can spy into the unsuspecting daughter's life. It's a plant, a bug, a mindtap.
This honestly didn't occur to me when I gave my own daughter a diary. What occured to me then was that my diary had been such a source of therapy for me, a place where I could vent all of my secret frustrations, all of my passionate crushes. I could trust my diary. It wouldn't laugh at me, or scold me, or humilate me in any way. My first entry was so stream-of-consciousness and unedited:
Tuesday, 4/10/1979
Dear Diary,
Today is the day before my birthday. I can't wait till
tomorrow. I bet I have a surprise party again. Oh, and I was talking to my dad about Dawn. She's my "best friend." She will be forever. Today I had to stay in for basketball. OUR team lost. I let David Savage play with my basketball and he dropped it in the mud! Tomorrow is Wednesday. Today is Lea's birthday!
Each of the entries following that first one talk about my friends, my school, my secret crush (David Savage), my deep feelings--well, as deep as they can be for a ten-year-old, which seemed pretty deep to me. In retrospect, I find it amazing that I wrote that "All I have been thinking about is David" in the same week that I brought my giant stuffed Easter bunny to sit next to me in school. But these were my feelings. These were the things I could remember to write about.
Still, I was cautious. I guess when you're ten, you still believe that your parents are somewhat omnipresent. And even though I didn't consciously write my diary with the intention of my mother reading it, I made concessions for the possibility that she would:
4/80
Mom had a dream last night that I ws a teenager and I ran away
and I said I hated her. I would NEVER do that!
I LOVE YOU, MOM!
BYE!
I spent much of today going back and forth between denial and grief. There were so many thoughts, so much left unsaid. I couldn't stand it. Each rememberance was a punch in the gut. What could I do now? Who did I have to talk to about this thing that had happened? After spending all of my life running from my mother, all I wanted now was to run into her arms.
If my mother could read my diary now, she would know all of my deepest thoughts. It seems so ironic to me that I tell these thoughts to the whole world, yet I haven't spoken to my mother in over eight years. Here they were, these thoughts for all the world to read, and she never knew them.
My comfort comes in believing that someday, when this is all over, it will all make sense.
Hammered out at 9:28 AM. Copyright 2004 by Denice Hazlett
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