I am one of those girls. Those girls I saw on television when I was little. The ones who got caught. I am one of the girls whose journal/diary was found and who had her personal and private thoughts exposed without her consent. One of those girls who was ridiculed because of those thoughts and who had to face negative consequences because of them.
I used to think those girls were stupid. The ones who kept diaries. The ones who didn’t hide them well, or who didn’t write in them with code. So I did it, because I was smart. I kept a diary. I wrote in it with code, and I hid it. I wouldn’t be foolish like those girls – the ones who weren’t careful and who got caught.
The thing is though, I didn’t have anything to hide, and no one was looking for anything. I got tired of it. I was only logging daily events anyway. I stopped. It was pointless.
I don’t remember how old I was then. I don’t even remember if I had gotten to the seventh grade.
Four and a half years ago I moved to America. Some time after that, I took up journaling again. It was actually some time before I started this blog, so over a year ago then. I did it because I thought it would help me. I had a lot of things in my head, and no one to really talk to. My best friend was left behind in Jamaica.
My writing started out as poetry. I would find myself writing a poem when I was frustrated, or when I was angry. When something good happened to me I would sometimes write a poem. I would write poems based on my religion, my relationship with God, my relationship with my new family, my new school and the people there, my own feelings, everything. They were coming out so much that I bought a book to keep them in. I even started a blog to share them.
Over time, they weren’t enough. Though they would help to release some emotion, they didn’t take everything. They still left me with something in me that I wanted to get out, but couldn’t. I thought maybe I should start a journal. I used Notebook and I made one. It wasn’t doing anything. I didn’t have much to write. Sometimes I would. Sometimes I wouldn’t. I bought an actual book and wrote in it. I liked that. I kept on using it until it was finished. It was small really. I replaced it with a bigger one. I used both it and the online journal. They both served me well. I used the online one at work, and the physical one at home and sometimes school. They were both still lacking in that they were not able to take all my frustration, but I didn’t have any other options. Talking to anyone who would listen didn’t prove very helpful either. I was just scattering pieces of my story, and that didn’t help to heal it.
I forgot though, about those foolish girls. I forgot about them and became one of them. I never wrote in code. Doing that is bothersome anyway, but I also didn’t hide my journal. This time I didn’t think I needed to. I had a bedroom. People don’t go into other people’s bedrooms. People don’t go into other people’s belongings. Even if you saw something, you’d leave it alone, because it didn’t belong to you. I thought, no one is going to come in here and read this. I was right, for a time. No one went in and read it. I never even thought about it much. I didn’t write in it every day, or every week for that matter. I didn’t have time for that.
But I shouldn’t have forgotten. I shouldn’t have forgotten those girls. I shouldn’t have been so trusting.
Now I’ve become one of them. I’ve become an idiot. An ungrateful and selfish person. A person who is negative. A person who hates.
I shouldn’t have forgotten those girls.