Dear Diary: A Cautionary Tale

Tucked into the broken drawer slats of my nightstand was a composition book that belonged to the previous owner. As far as found objects go, you can't get any more innocuous than a black Mead marbled schoolbook, but the instinct to open it and flip the pages (something we must learn by rote in our formative book years) reveals that this is no homework log, but a diary. And this diary is no diary like that of a writer-- there are no painstaking efforts to describe events, flush out characters, or even to ascribe to basic grammatical convention. This is the real thing, the classified raw emotions of someone genuinely turning to the pen for release: it is, without question, the most terrifying object I have ever encountered.

I have been keeping a journal of some kind since I was thirteen, which means that my entire life has been fastidiously documented for over ten years. There is ritual to my journaling: the vessel is important and selected with care; pens and handwriting are wielded with the tedious patience of a taxidermist. I have experimented with logging the times, noting my location, music, clothing, food. For a time I was even writing prayers. I have mastered the art of paraphrasing dialogue, so as to never lose a poignant conversation to the hazy well of memory (which I'm certain makes some people very, very nervous). Every important player in my life has been chronicled down to the most minute detail: I've noted tapered fingers, large pores, cadences and speech patterns, a peculiar method of eating popcorn, or the odd moment shared after a line is crossed. I have written love letters to teachers, detailed fantasies of wild success, delivered deliciously vicious diatribes against politicians, family members, and dear friends. I have hulled emotions from myself and given them to the page, writing until my fingers cramp, my forearm burns, and I am gutted.

But I have never, not once, given in to the reckless abandon of writing for only myself.

This composition book diary is only a rough dozen entries, delivered once a month or so, with absolutely zero consideration for a reader. Names are thrown around without explanation, emotions are contradictory and unjustified. Heinous acts are mentioned but left undefended, are then violently but briefly regretted. Her prose is underdeveloped, the handwriting harried, secrets spilled without apology. A repetitious line of self-loathing strings together chronicles of someone resigned to be sex-addicted and lost.

I met this girl a few times before she sold me the nightstand. After reading the diary I've Facebook stalked her a few times, searched through her friends to match names of regrettable hookups to their digital visages. My instinct was to judge, to note the youthful smiley face and the addled disconnect from her dimples to the sparse admissions of "Got drunk. Had sex with J----- even though I didn't want to. I am disgusting. He is gross." I mean, I also bought her bed, and spent almost a year of ignorant nights nestled amongst the ghosts of hundreds of drug-fueled romps, often with men who are "Okay, 48, but he's so sexy and made me feel soooo good about myself."

Maybe it's because I read Anne Frank's diary before I began keeping one myself, but I was always far too guarded to ever write like the Girl from the Composition Book. The thought of posthumous publication is enough to keep my feet to the fire, but I think the most imminent danger was that of a snooper-- you know, the "concerned parent," or jealous boyfriend. While reading my journals has proven to be a deal-breaker at least once in my life, I totally get it. We want to know what everyone is "really" thinking, who they "really" are. But while I now know that the owner of the composition book wanted so desperately to find meaning in her life (goal lists included such arbitrary stock-do-gooder items like "Help AIDS victims in Africa" and "Become a yoga instructor"), unfortunately for my snoopers, my diaries are more calculated and guarded than a well-timed conversation over a couple of glasses of wine (I'm a bit of cheap drunk, as it turns out, and not much of a secret-keeper).

This composition book is hands-down the saddest thing I've ever read, but absolutely solidifies my commitment to journaling for the Phantom. Doing something therapeutic for yourself is a fabulous notion, but do yourself a favor and never, ever put it in writing.