Storytime

When I was younger, I wrote all the time, whether it was movie scripts, poetry, or everyday journaling. I always carried a notebook, scribbling down whatever was on my mind. Writing was my world, escape, and way of making sense of everything.

But that all stopped when I was a child. One day, my cousins and my uncle read my journal. They caught glimpses of the thoughts I had poured out so privately, and I hated it. I felt exposed like they had stolen a piece of me I wasn’t ready to share.

As a kid, I valued my privacy above all else. I didn’t want anyone to know what I was thinking or feeling. When I couldn’t make sense of my thoughts, I’d write them out; my journal was the only thing that truly kept me sane; for them to invade that space and read what I had written hurt more than I could explain.

After that, I made a choice: I would keep my thoughts to myself. If I bottled everything up, no one could ever invade my mind again. No one would know the real me or my deepest, darkest secrets. It felt safer that way.

Now, years later, I completely suck at writing, and I wish I hadn’t given it up. I wish I hadn’t let that moment take away something I loved so much.