I used to journal, almost every night. Journals remind us of who we are and how far we've come, maybe even how much farther we still have to go.
But I stopped journaling, which sucks.
side note: last time I was in Los Angeles, I was in a coffee shop on Beverly Blvd. I was sipping java, journaling. There was a guy next to me writing on his laptop. We sorta eyed one another - what we were writing. He journals on his laptop. I journal on paper. We swapped some words about it.
I later realized I was speaking to Dean Deleo. He was nice.
Back to what sucks--
A close family member told me, "yeah, I've read your diary..."
I lost my breath for a moment. I hold many secrets, wants and wishes between those pages. The violation, trust, instantly broken in shards. There's no going back after such thing.
side note: Read it after I'm dead.
So, this is me: a pressure cooker, a lid twisted on too tight, anxious and kinda angry. Pissed from all the crap floating around in my brain, unable to release on the page - a mental melange of sewage. I feel desperate to purge. Don't feel safe to.
There was no honest apology. No word that it was an accident. No begging for forgiveness. Nada. Just a huff and a haughty comment, "I thought you were reading mine."
My skin crawled. Beyond shocked and appalled. If there's one art I get in spades, it's boundaries and giving people their personal space. Also, I'm not that nosey.
I can shrug most things off, but not this.
Journals/diaries are private. Many parts of my journal/most journals carry secrets that aren't meant for sharing. I'm still in shock, and I learned of this in the Spring.
Who the F reads someones' diary?
