I kept a diary for some time last year.
I kept everything in it. My utmost secrets and my day-to-day meaningless thoughts. My feelings too.
I didn't keep it to be hurtful, to be mean, just to keep track of things. To vent and to have something of my own that I could write in freely, about girly things, or chick-flicks and not having any of my family shut me up.
Being the youngest, and the only girl with 5 big brothers, sometimes there were somethings I didn't feel comfortable about discussing, or wanting to discuss. Or knowing no one else watched a show, or was interested in politics or w/e ..i would write in my diary.
One day, after an argument with my dad about the fact that their was a difference between caramel and toffee...he told me to go get my diary (it got heated - the argument - and branched out) ...i got it down and he made me read it to him.
I felt betrayed, violated even. I got over it. But every-now and then. I think back to reading it to him, and I cringe.
Because when I wrote them things, I knew they were for my eyes only.
I'll never keep a journal or diary again until I've moved out.
And I wouldn't suggest anyone read anybody diary or journal. Trust is betrayed. Sometimes things are written in anger. Sometimes things change. And sometimes, secrets are called secrets for a reason.
-Kath