Spilling Secrets:
How My Diary Shaped My Life and Identity
My diaries reveal the story of my life, the phases I went through, and the themes I explored. I discovered my passion for writing by faithfully recording everything I did and felt in a diary. I grew up in the seventies when movies like “Love Story” and “Ryan’s Daughter” captured the hearts of many. It was fitting that I had a diary, a gift from my father. It had a page for each day. It had a red sleeve.
I wrote freely about my inner thoughts, such as whether I would go to hell for eternity if I did something wrong. Or how I argued with my mother, which was a frequent occurrence. Every time I smoked, I confessed it in my diary. Whenever a friend hurt me, I vented it. They were not betrayals, just minor disputes, but I was naive enough to think they were huge dramas. If someone broke my heart, I poured it out. My anger with my uncle and some teachers also found its way into my diary.
My diary/journal was my secret friend, trusted ally, and silent witness. I never thought my parents would sneak a peek into its pages, but who knows? If they did, they would see my exposed and fragile self, my hopes and fears, my challenges and dreams. They would think I was a wreck, a hopeless case, a candidate for therapy. But that was before I left Sri Lanka, where I was born and where I belonged. I left my diaries/journals there, along with my past. I’m sure my father preserved them, but maybe he also read them with a smile.
My diary was my uncensored voice, sincere expression, and genuine self. I wasn’t concerned about being nice or proper back then. I spilled out my feelings, thoughts, opinions, and visions. If these diaries still existed today, and if I shared them with my kids and grandkids, they would think I was a stranger from another world.
My diary was also my planner, my organiser, my reminder. I wrote down my short-term and long-term goals and daily and weekly tasks. I kept a record of my friends’ contact details, addresses and phone numbers, and the ones you had to dial on a landline before mobile phones took over.
On some pages, I would doodle, practice calligraphy and draw pictures, even nude ones, hoping no one would see them. Now I realise my diary was my foundation as a writer. It also shaped my identity. It provided me with a safe space for autonomy and self-discovery. In my diary, I could learn how to articulate my thoughts and sort out my experiences, however silly, my fears, my first crushes and my big dreams for the future.
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