Love Stories, Of a Sort

I first fell in love with journaling when Disney's The Hunchback of Notre Dame came out. Like many other girls my age, I desperately wanted to be Esmeralda and was convinced that if I just got the right dress, a goat, and a tambourine, I could renounce this provincial life and freely roam the streets like the vagabond I aspired to be.

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FREEDOM!

I even asked my mom if I could be Esmeralda for Halloween that year, which probably translated in her brain as, "I wanna be a sex bomb, mommy!" Somehow, she agreed to look for costumes with me, none of which fit, since I was too tall to feasibly pass for a 7-year-old gypsy (I believe my mom encouraged me to dress up as a fully-covered ghost after that.) When my birthday rolled around a few weeks later, my consolation prize was a squashy plastic journal with Esmeralda dancing on the cover.

It was magnificent! The perfect size and weight, it sat comfortably in my hands as if eagerly awaiting the chance to be my confidante. I was immediately captivated by the plastic lock. It signified power--only I had the key, ergo only I could open the lock. All my journal entries would forever be safe within the confines of this vault.

I was mightily grateful for that lock when I rallied myself to write my first entry: "Friday is my birthday and I'm 8 years old and I got the Magic School Bus Explores the Solar System. It is really neat. 'Totally cool!' I said when I saw It." No one could know what unspeakable secrets I held within my heart.

Eventually, I learned that journals are a safe place for sharing your crushes. On November 26, 1996, I confessed: "There's boy in my class named Sam. I have a huge crush on him. He seems to like me alot too. Were perfect for each other." Note the lack of exclamation points and the poor grammar. Sometimes strong emotion just doesn't translate.

Almost a year later, I realized that confiding in my journal about my crush had not done anything significant to change my present situation. It was August 1997, and Sam still hadn't confessed his undying love for me. To encourage the universe to get moving on my behalf, I decided that this particular secret bore repeating: "There's this boy in my class named Sam. I Like himalot. I don't know if he likes me though. I'm hoping he'll like me alot in Fourth grade." Hint hint, Journal. "Like" is capitalized.

I am not entirely sure which came first, Sam moving away or The Lock Incident, but I soon lost faith in the transformational powers of my journal. Surprisingly, simply writing down things like, "I like Sam and he will love me" had not brought such occasions about. On top of that, I discovered that my plastic lock was not the impregnable trap of steel I had imagined it to be. After watching Harriet the Spy open a lock with a hair pin, I decided to test the lock on my journal. Surely my lock would not give way so easily.

It snapped open in two seconds. I sat on my bed, mouth agape, the ink-soaked pages of my secret life fluttering freely in the breeze.

I had trusted this journal, told it things about The Magic School Bus no one else knew, and it had possessed the potential to betray me the entire time?! I would never journal again. 

That sentiment was short-lived when I began receiving gift journals en masse. They piled up in my bedroom, a luminous array of checkered plastic, smiling moons, and matte finish. Oh, I dabbled in them to be sure, even venturing to test one more time if my confessed love for Sam would somehow secure our future together. It didn't. My third failure was one too many, and I became a journal floozy. I went from journal to journal, stopping to write a few pages' worth then moving on the next morning. I can't tell you how many journals I have that are mostly empty. But that was how my heart was: mostly empty.

And then, one fine day, my sister gave me the journal that changed it all. This one wasn't like the others--this one was special. This one was leather-bound. It looked just rugged enough, even the pages were a light tan instead of a garish white. And on the inside was an elegantly written message from my sister. There was no getting around it; this one was mine. 

Notice the lack of a lock.

I had that journal for five years. To this day, it is the only journal that I have completely filled, cover to cover. I took it everywhere--it taught me to love journaling again; it gave me the chance to be myself; it was my way back to journal-monogamy. It set me free. 

I've moved on to another journal now, but not a day goes by I don't think about that old leathery rascal, and what it meant to me. I may still not have a goat or a tambourine, but...*dramatic pause*...I do have my freedom.