What Will Happen to my Teenage Diaries?

Remembering and being remembered through a sixteen-year-old lens of messy journal entries never to see the light of day.

When I was getting ready to pack up my life to move (you know, because I hadn’t started yet), in the back of my mind, I felt like I was forgetting something. Then, all at once, it dawned on me.

Oh dear.

Oh no.

That’s right.

Under my bed is not a monster. But, honestly, it might be worse. Stuffed into an old Vera Bradley backpack with more holes in it than any back should be kept through are my teenage diaries—a good half dozen of them.

Since I was about sixteen, I kept daily-ish diaries religiously.

I filled journals of creative writing dialogue and everyday moments I found important at the time. I let tears stain the lines on the pages. I wrote my most angry, desperate thoughts I don’t want to think of for fear they’ll find me again.

And those feelings are still there.

There’s something so raw and vulnerable about reading old diary entries. It’s like looking back at a past version of yourself and realizing how much you’ve grown. It’s there in black, white, and multicolored pen on the page both in how you interacted with the world around you as well as how you handled your mind that feels like a warped version of what you know now.

I hesitated to open them back up to take a peek inside of my old journals at first. I was afraid of what memories they might bring up—the regrets and the hopes that never came true or have since transformed. But curiosity got the better of me and soon enough, I found myself flipping through pages after pages.

The earliest one was from when I was just sixteen years old. The handwriting was messy in looping cursive, but the words were still clear as day to me.

I started many entries, “Dear Love.” 

Back then, even I knew that the only person in the world perhaps that may ever accept what was written inside was a person who loved me more than perhaps I even loved myself at the time.

A true sort of love, the romantic inside of me who still lingers explained.

As I skimmed through the other entries, it felt like going on a journey through my adolescence where I already felt so adult. High school daydreams, drama with friends, insecurities about my appearance, and feeling so behind in life—it was all there.

But amidst all the dramatic teenage emotions, there were also glimpses of life and loveliness and self-discovery.

So, what do I want to happen to them when I no longer have that chance to decide whether or not they come with me wherever I end up?

Do I want them burned? Buried somewhere on another continent? Thrown to sea? At one point when I started my first diary after reading about Anne Frank in school I almost hoped one day they would be published— That I would have something worthwhile enough to say that it would resonate with girls like me.

Now, I can only hope that the stars have mercy on me and my much less eloquent thoughts.

I can’t throw all the diaries away. I kept them preserved with minimal pages ripped out for far too long. They act as a file, my wrap sheet of transgressions I and others made against me through life.

So what if I do hope that someone burns them? I would have to make specific sections just about in my will, I suppose, and hope that no one pulls a Kafka and publishes them all with no revisions.

No reading. Only fire ablaze. If people wanted to gather around and roast some marshmallows, so be it.

Burying the journals in the ground after all is a lot more manual labor compared to fire.

Would there be a eulogy for the diary? Hopefully not.

No one would have anything good to say about my many emotional breakdowns put to page when they should have not been. The burial would instead only be by someone I knew well and would not dare to open the front cover. They would have to do it in the dead of night, much like what you’d imagine burying a body to be like. If the cops see you, they should be suspicious.

Hopefully, the worms have a taste for purple Pilot Pen ink.

As I pack up my journals for another move, I can't help but feel a twinge of guilt. They have been with me through so much, and yet here I am, throwing them into a box without a second thought.

But then again, maybe it's time for them to have a new adventure. Maybe it's time for someone else to find them and discover the secrets within their pages.

But as I carefully wrap each one to put away, I can't help but wonder if this will be their final journey with me. Will they end up in another attic or basement, collecting dust for years until someone stumbles upon them?

Or maybe they'll be thrown out without a second glance, deemed as unimportant clutter by whoever inherits them.

No matter what happens to my journals in the future, they have served their purpose for me. They were there during my darkest moments and helped me make sense of my thoughts and emotions.

As I seal up the box and add it to the rest of my belongings, ready to start a new chapter in my life, I can't help but feel a sense of closure both for the words there and the ones I tore out to at last leave behind before they make this trip. Those journals are not just filled with words on paper; they are pieces of myself that have helped shape who I am today.

Maybe one day, when I'm old and grey and looking back on my life, I'll stumble upon that box once again. And maybe this time, instead of feeling guilt or nostalgia, I'll simply smile at the memories they hold.

For now, though, it's time to let go. It's time for a new adventure with no room for old baggage. And who knows? Maybe someday down the line, someone else will find those journals and go on an adventure of their own through my written words.

Maybe this will be my journal's final trip with me. Or maybe one day, I’ll be finding them up in my attic and questioning again to myself.

What will happen to my teenage diaries?

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