"The best biographies leave their readers with a sense of having all but entered into a second life and of having come to know another human being in some ways better than he knew himself."
- Mary Cable
I've always loved to write. Whether it was short stories, poems, or passages in a journal, I always felt a sense of security in my writings. Never left me ashamed or embarrassed about what I was feeling or thinking. It has always been just for me. Much as the reasoning behind being so private in the blogging world. It is after all just another outlet, one where I get to choose who in my daily life can view and the rest are random strangers out in the universe. What do I care what they think? It's not like they'll see me at the store and say, oh, she wrote this the other day.
I've long thought about keeping a journal, something hand written, but the problem with doing so is I often worry that it'll fall into the wrong hands. There are just some things that I'm not yet ready to share with those who I'm close with. Sometimes, it's more out of concern that they'll consider my words to be more serious than at times they really are. For example, if I'm having a bad day, I may say somethings that spike worry about my mentality and depression levels. When it's happened in the past, I took me months to convince them that it was just a bad day. Now grant it, there are times that I have more bad days than good, but does that mean I'm going to end my life that month? No. I have two very good reasons to never take my own life.
But I've come to wonder what it would be like for my daughter or son to read through my thoughts when I'm gone. What would they think? Would they have already known the struggles I've kept buried deep inside? Do I do as good of a job hiding it as I've let myself believe? It just fascinates me. The idea of them or any of those I love to go through and read my private thoughts. How would they react? Would it give them a better understanding of who I am? I certainly hope they don't understand in the sense that I wouldn't want them to have to know the feelings that I keep locked inside. Who would want their loved ones to feel as if they've never known themselves, never having been comfortable in their own skin, to be tormented by the awful thoughts that run rampant? I would never wish that on anyone, especially not those I love.
So maybe one day, when I'm old and gray, I'll let them take a look at everything I've compiled over the years, but for now, this is just for me and those I choose to let see. I think of what it would be like, what I would title a biography depicting me, how it would be laid out, would I spill everything or will I always have skeletons in my closet? Which makes me think what if my dad had written everything down? Would it be of a comfort? Would I understand why he was the way he was? Those are the questions that leave me to almost want to leave a piece of myself behind.
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