On a recent summer night* I burned my five-year diary. Torched the sucker. Watched it turn to ashes in the backyard fire pit. The diary in question, or perhaps I should say, the questionable diary, was my personal chronicle of 1985 through 1989.
I’d received the diary for Christmas in 1984 from one of my roommates at the time. As a young woman newly graduated from college, freshly minted as a farm news reporter, and recently rid of my lying, cheating ex-boyfriend, I accepted the gift, eager to fill it with what I and I alone deemed true. From age 23 through 27, I faithfully scribed my thoughts and perspectives onto the journal’s blank pages.
After completing the last entry on Dec. 31, 1989, I stashed the diary in my old trunk, tucked away with other personal ephemera for safekeeping. I believed, then, that as I aged I always would want to know what I had written in my youth. But now in 2018 at age 56, I no longer hold that belief. Sometimes the statute of limitations on documenting memories runs out.
I want to hold on to the meaningful things in my life, but I’m becoming more willing to let go of those items that over time have become meaningless.
For the record, I reread my diary before I burned it, at times amused, at times surprised. Some of the stories I remembered; others I did not. But the more I read about myself in my 20s, the more I realized that I did not want to share the majority of these stories with anyone who might inadvertently or purposefully find my old diary. So I decided to censor my younger self, for all posterity.
But first, I removed three pages from my chronicle — the pages that held stories I wanted to keep and was willing to share: how I met the man who would become my husband, how we traveled our way through a snowstorm to get to Lambeau Field for what became known as the Green Bay Packers’ Snow Bowl game, and my four-paragraph summation of my life in the 1980s.
I am a writer and I share stories, but some of my stories are reserved for only me. Not every story should be told. Not every inquiring mind needs to know my secrets. Rather than tell all, sometimes it’s better to keep ’em guessing.
*Aug. 1, 2018