Lately, I have been having a hard time accepting vulnerability. So, when someone asks me a question, my words are too flowery and not necessarily the truth. In fact, I have been telling myself blatant lies about how my habit of thinking out loud is why you secretly hate me. But I guess it is why I dislike myself the most (bummer!). You see, I will build facades of how you should not give up on me before telling you where I went so wrong, which is why I return to my diary to tell me it’s okay. That I can still accept myself, and the world will be kind enough to do the same someday.
My diary has been my imaginary friend, and all the credits go to Anne Frank. It does not mock me for the dreams I gave up on when I was 17, or create a nuisance for my cluelessness at 20. It knows the kind of dress I felt pretty in the trail room and how I think cheese is overrated. I have had a conversation with it about the boy I crushed on, only to find out that he was a disappointment. My diary knows about how proud I’ve felt of my friend, who thinks she isn’t good enough. It holds my tears on the nights I fear I might lose a loved one. On days when I wish to hug myself, my diary was my home.
Us humans are programmed to learn from our mistakes, it's the only way we grow. I wasn’t an easy child. My loud mouth with mindless words had an on-off relationship with everything in the world. In fact, there are stories I fear if my friends know, they would smile at me less and roll their eyes a lot more. When I was 12, I went with my mother to watch my brother’s Annual Day. The moment I saw a dark-skinned uncle come sit next to me, I yelled, “Ewww”, and he left. In 10th grade, my friend labeled me as a bully because I joked about crooked teeth. I grew up only to realize to forgive myself first and accept that it is sad how I choose to sit alone or be friendless than be understanding. It was my diary that saved me from awful headaches when I was struggling with a change of heart, and of that, I'm grateful.
My diary holds the loopholes that I have always concealed from the world. It holds my secret love affair with art, my unbearable urge to witness the perfect dawn, and my secret letters to people I wish I find someday. The rants for my hate for bottle gourd lie safe in my diary, away from my mom. My reckless self, at 20, finally knows that perfection will be the death of vulnerability, and no wonder how lost, my chapters will always bring me back home.
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