My first diary was a tiny black book with gold edges, a bit like the sort of thing we used to carry around to note our friends' telephone numbers down in, before filofax and cellphones. I had to keep my writing microscopic. Whenever anything exciting was happening I never had time to write the diary, and so it was a very dull read: Had treacle tart for lunch today. Mummy washed my hair...You get the picture.
The last time I kept a diary regularly was about nineteen years ago. I'd been married for three years or so, and I was living in a beautiful new apartment. I had a baby who rarely slept. My Turkish wasn't bad, but it wasn't up to girly chats with friends. So, I didn't have any.
There was no cable TV, which meant there was nothing to watch in English, and the library at the Turkish American Institute had closed down. I had to get my mother to send me videos and books. I was dying, I was so lonely. Sometimes I'd go all day without talking. My 'mummy brain' wasn't up to taking up proper writing again. The diary was a sort of 'Dear Kitty' thing.
I threw that diary away a while ago, but I still remember it. It was a transparently self-deceiving attempt to convince myself that I had a wonderfully busy and exciting life. Complete fantasy, rather like the fabricated japes I used to write home about when I was trying to survive my nightmarish boarding school.
I'm wondering if a blog will be any more truthful now I'm older and wiser. I suspect not, since it's online for others to view. Well, anyway, even if I don't delve deep into myself, perhaps it'll spin off into another, more honest, private journal. Who knows? At the very least, the blog will be somewhere to jot down the random ideas I get sometimes!
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