I Do Not Have A Diary

Negro, Please

 

I met a very intelligent old man this weekend. A doctor of history and latin, this man was pretty much a walking encyclopedia. I spent much of the weekend learning about all types of stuff that I won’t remember, but was cool in the moment. Dr. SmartyPants was good in my book, until he looked at me and let the most offensive sentence cascade out of his mouth. I was sitting on the couch, minding my business, writing.

“Oh, I see you’re writing in your diary there.”

*record comes to a screeching halt*

I don’t think I’ve given an eye as evil as the one that little Mr. I Know Everything About Everything recieved in that moment. This look was followed by an icy “This is Not a diary. I don’t have a diary.” What I really wanted to say:

Bruh, I’m 25 years old, and I write. I write everything. Notes, plans, thoughts. I write everywhere. Any paper at any time that I have words that need to be written will work for me. I prefer a notebook. I am currently writing in a notebook. This notebook is not pink, or purple or decorated with some freakishly feminine design. This book that I’m writing in does not have a little lock, nor do I need a key to access the pages. I’m a grown ass woman. I do not have a diary. Fall back. 

 

I write. It’s what I do, and a big part of who I am. It keeps me organized. It has kept me sane at times. It has prevented more bad decisions than I can count. It has assisted in the birth of ideas. I do not have a diary. I have a little extensions of myself.

 

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I. Write. Period.

One of my favorite places.

 

If I have something bothering me, I usually write it out. If I have SOMETHING to say to someone, I write it out first.  When I really need to talk to God, I write Him a letter. I work out all of the jumbled thoughts in my head by writing them down. That is when they start to make sense. When my pen hits paper, I enter my happy place.

People (read: various opinionated family members and close friends) always comment on how much I don’t communicate. I started telling myself that I need to start talking more and writing less. I said that I would practice, and eventually I wouldn’t need so many notebooks. I started trying, and it has not worked at all. I’ve been frustrated and confused. Oh, and I haven’t been talking. I’ve been spending too much time trying to work my thought out in my head for fear of saying the wrong thing. Nothing has come out right, at least I don’t feel that it has. I’ve been second guessing decisions and harboring doubt. I never feel this way when I write.

Today I picked up the journal that I bought with the intention of jotting down lists and started penning everything that came to mind. I felt better with every word. Then I picked up the journal that I bought for the sole purpose of writing to God and let the words fly. What started as one of the most ratchet letters of frustration that I ever did wrote, ended a something so much more than anything that I’ve been attempting to say with my mouth. And now I’m back here where I started. Writing. Writing about how I tried to ruin one of the “perfect” things about myself.

I write. If I don’t write, I”m lost. I don’t need to make a living from it; don’t need anyone’s approval. I need a pen and paper to communicate with myself, my emotions, my God and my dreams, my goals and the people who I love. I do not want to change that. Ever.