I had forgotten the number of diaries I accrued during my teenage years. And then this week in a fit of “oh shit, I should really clean out the four massive boxes of my stuff and de-clutter my closet” frenzy, I came across a half dozen of them.
For the first half of my life, much of my dad’s work focused on the power of journaling. A social psychologist, my father linked people’s physical health to the importance of writing about difficult experiences. Great stuff! Unless you’re his teenage daughter and got diaries from every family friend for Christmas during the 1990s. “Oh, how great, another journal to add to my collection of barely written-in ones. Thanks!”
But it turns out I did write in a bunch of these diaries, even if just a few pages. And it also turns out that reentering the mind of your teenage self isn’t terribly pleasant. I wrote about everything— my frustration with my parents, petty fights with friends, insecurity over my abilities and looks, anxiety over being new and making friends after a move, crushes and heart-ache. 
Reading this stuff was a guide to the miseries of being in middle school and high school. I had thought that going through these diaries might give me a sense of clarity and pleasure in how far I’ve come (except my handwriting— that remains serial killeresque). But instead of feeling triumphant or wise, I instead felt like I was instantly transported to 13 or 15 or 18 again. Like I was trapped in my small world and that worrying about whether Crush A might or might not call really was a life-altering concern.
Or, shit, my parents really were jerks for not letting me to go to an amusement park even though I had no transportation back. Why didn’t they want me to have fun, eat funnel cake and drop $60 on a ticket like all the other kids’ parents!?
And, GOD, how screwed I really would be if I didn’t get into Yale. Or didn’t do well on my SATs— I probably would have stayed a check-out girl at the local grocery store forever if I hadn’t written obsessively about scoring better on my verbal section.
Pre-diary delve of this week, I would have argued that I’m leaps and bounds past the insecurities of my teenage years. And on face value, that’s true. I’m no longer worried about getting into college (fuck you, Yale!) or how Friend A was SO RUDE for not giving me a ride. But the core of these teenage-era concerns aren’t so dissimilar to my anxieties now. Friend B was kind of a bitch for not inviting me to her wedding and I still worry that I’ll end up unemployed and begging for a job at the neighborhood grocery store.
I guess that’s being human— learning how to roll with self-doubt (unless you’re Bill Clinton or that bastard Rupert Murdoch). And my diary delve has confirmed that some insecure pieces of me are staying, though can at least be packaged a little better (big shoutout to my hair dryer). At least now I know what themes to expect— guess who’s still going to be worried about her parents’ approval in 10 years?! And guess who will be concerned that she made the wrong career choice in 20 years!? And guess who will get irrationally annoyed with a friend this month?! BAM! Nailed it.
Instead of destroying my old diaries in an awesome bonfire, I packed them away in a box yesterday. I somehow couldn’t let go of my writings, even though at no point do I ever envision myself thinking “You know what I feel like doing today? Re-reading my really depressingly narcissistic musings from my teenage years!” At the very least I will cling to the relief that my dad stopped writing about the importance of journaling and I no longer receive several empty diaries every holiday. All insecure (and predictable!) adult musings will instead have to be broadcast to the blogosphere. I’ll call that delusional progress and take comfort in how remarkably clean my closet is.
There’s a strong correlation between women I’m likely to be friends with and women who own southern cookbooks but don’t actually use their kitchens much/if ever.
