My mum passed me a bag of books the other day. She was moving and needed to get rid of “my things”. When I finally found the time to sift through the pile of dusty books, lo and behold, I found an old diary that I kept when I was in my 20s.
Opening the diary brought back a flood of memories. Writing was (and still is) my coping mechanism and back in those days before the internet (and blogging), I used to scribble my thoughts furiously. More often than not, my scribbling was about emotional pain, or “my crumpled heart”, as I wrote so cleverly (hur hur). I remember tears between those paper pages. I asked myself questions, I questioned the Universe (!), and wow, I even found poems. Yes, I wrote poems.
Very drama mama.
I couldn’t bring myself to read the entries in its entirety because they bring me back to days of an unsettled heart that was constantly searching and hurting. Some people say that your 20s are the best times of your life.
Not for me.
In my 20s, I was uncertain, unsure and…clueless. I wasn’t sure what it was that I wanted in the love department which led me to dating quite a few “wrong” boys. You name it, I’ve probably dated one. (If you’re reading this Mum, I’m sorry. Hehehe).
In fact, after I found the diary, I texted the BFF:
Found my old diary. Sheesh, I was so whiny and needy. Amazed you didn’t slap me.
She still jokes (or maybe she’s serious, I don’t know for sure) that I still owe her therapy and counselling fees.
I am so so glad that those angsty days are over. I much prefer being in my 30s, thank you very much.
I pondered over what I should do with the diary.
Keep it? (For what?)
Burn it? (Not good for the environment)
Shred it? (Maybe)
For the record, I
threw placed it in the wardrobe and maybe one day, I’d take it out and read it again in its entirety. Just to remind myself that we were all young and stupid once.