I’ve been staring at this blank screen for about an hour now. I think I’ve typed out and erased what I’ve written around 10 times. I used to love to write. I still love to write. Why is it so hard now? Why do things that always used to be easy end up being hard after some time? Who knows.
Because of certain events that have happened in my life recently, I found myself digging up my old journals. I have a whole box of them, sitting under my bed in my parents’ house. I don’t even have all of them, maybe about half. I distinctly remember having a journal in the first grade, but with all the moving that my family has done in my life, it’s probably somewhere in a pile of trash by now. Although I’d like to think it ended up in someone’s pile of old stuff in their garage. Maybe someone will find them one day and laugh about the little girl writing about how she wanted to punch her classmates in the face because they wouldn’t pick up the trash.
It was a painful thing, reading my ramblings from ten, eleven years ago. I was such a whiny little fourteen year-old. But then, I tend to think all teenage girls are whiny and annoying. And to think I wasn’t even one of the girly ones.
It struck me how alike and different I was to my sixteen year-old self. 2005 was a weird year.
It also struck me how I wrote in such detail. Is this a teenage thing? These days it’s so easy to document one’s life through tweets and facebook statuses and Instagram pictures. It’s a whole other thing to take the time to sit down with my journal and write down all these minute details of my day. Sometimes those were the ones that were most priceless.
I also didn’t realize how freakin’ boy crazy I was. It was one boy to the next then back again. It was hilarious/painful. I was so eager to fall in love.
It was unnerving to read one particular journal. I could see the tone in my writing change. It changed from this hilariously naive and bitchy little teenage girl who called every single boy “not good enough” to this… I don’t know. Quieter? Yeah. I think that’s the right word. To this quieter girl. I fell in love for the first time, and I got quieter. I was waiting so long, sometimes impatiently, to fall in love and have these emotions sweep me off my feet, and as it turns out, I wasn’t quite sure what to do with the feelings when they came. I was sixteen. What did I know.
Look at that. I was almost completely honest. How utterly terrifying.