So there I was looking through some memorabilia from my younger years that my mom had given to me before she moved into her new house. There were old report cards, every single horrific school picture I had taken, old dance shoes, theatre bills, articles from my time on the school paper, and my journal.
My journal. Oh there was a time where I was never without it. I would write in it quite often including during school hours, family time and in the middle of the night if I felt I had something that couldn’t wait until morning. It is amazing the crap you can think about when are sixteen at three in the morning.
I sat in my closet opening the yellowed pages of the floral fabric covered book that I hadn’t seen in more than twenty years. Tucked in some of the pages were pictures, letters and mementos along with my overly dramatic description of what they meant to me at the time. In that hour of reading I relived every moment I had written about.
I realized several things in those moments. I had wonderful friends that I loved very much and I still do to this day. As much as I thought I wasn’t boy crazy back then, I was. I was a drama queen, so I am quite sure that is where my girls get it. Apparently sarcasm isn’t new to me.
And I dreamed of being a writer. I wanted to share my thoughts with people and provoke conversation. I am pretty sure the sixteen and seventeen year old me hadn’t imagined that the only writing I would share are blogs and social media quips. But I would hope she would approve.
It’s funny what we memories we keep at the surface and those we tuck away. We are all like walking time capsules of our life. Every few years you have to open up and take some of those memories out. The good the bad they made us who we are. I may have put my journal back in its box but I think I might keep those memories of that younger me out a little longer. She was kind of a neat kid.
