i've kept a diary since 8th grade. filled with pain and prose and promise, they are an awkward glimpse into the lunacy of my legacy. daily dialect. they will be my daughter's history books. penned prayers. chaotic confirmation of all she questions. while pregnant, i wrote sporadically, leaving unknown gaps between each entry. after birth, i barely wrote at all. barely wrote at all until vulnerability spilled out the night before i said goodbye to my father (in this realm).
my day 84 photo fell into place solely because my latest diary fell into view. scooping off floor, i ran fingers along the edge of ridged pages and worn tape. tape that symbolically shut out a part of my life i tried not to look back on. the last 5 years of my twenties. finding what works, shedding what doesn't. full of grown woman naivete and silly girl notions, secular secrets and nympho like remedies, thirty-something me cringes at the scribbled insanity of it all.
but it isn't finished. and obsessive compulsive me has to finish it. but to do so, to continue telling the tales that brought me through the madness, i must un-tape the past...
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