When I was sixteen, my mom found and read my diary. I wrote everything in that sucker, especially about my make out sessions with my first boyfriend. There was nothing dirty or shocking about what I wrote. I just really liked kissing, and this boy, who always was the perfect gentleman, but my dear mother was convinced that I was on a sinful path to the streets. She made me call him over to our house that very day to break up with him.
I was humiliated. We had done nothing wrong.
And I’ve never been able to write, honestly write, since that day.
I didn’t learn a damn thing from that situation. I take that back – I learned to stuff whatever normal, healthy feelings or emotions I had, especially toward boys, stuffstuffstuff it away because it was bad. Wanting to kiss a boy was bad. Feeling attraction was bad. Not knowing whether or not I was going to marry the boy before I kissed him was bad.
How was I supposed to know if I wanted to marry him before I kissed him, before I dated him?
Thus ended my writing career. I’ve tried, over and over again, to start over and write what I really think. To not give a damn, to not constantly look over my shoulder, expecting the worst of consequences. I’m an adult now. No one can force me to break up with anyone.
Funny how milestones like first boyfriends and first breakups, especially involving your parents, turn into something deeper and uglier and creep into your soul and whisper at the back of your brain for the rest of your life.
Much later in my life, I publicly wrote about what I really thought of someone I knew. I never used this person’s name, never demeaned their character, simply relayed an event from my perspective with a lot of humor thrown in. It was an awesome piece of brain. It was what I felt. My father read it and, because he knew this person, demanded that I delete what I had written so as not to bring repercussions upon himself. I understood where he was coming from, heard his case and complied. But there it was again.
Your true feelings are bad. Your opinion is bad.
I was sixteen all over again.
But you know what? I’m over it. My thoughts do matter. And I’m going to write them down. If you know me, then you know I’m not a gossip. I’m not a basher. I just write funny stuff. Real stuff. If I offend you, don’t read what I write anymore. Or write something about me that I can read and make it funny and make it real.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to write more stuff.