Journaling fills me with tremendous trepidation. I have five journals started in nooks and crannies. When I was young, my locked diary was cream-colored. My kids found it covered in socks, promptly picked, then giggled at mommy’s middle school yearnings. Sometimes I rant and vent and write about fictitious events. Other times, secrets.
Might be from a Reese Witherspoon movie, but I imagine being in the bathtub, eyes closed, sunk up to my chin in bubbles, when someone comes in waving my journal. I feel panic, helplessness and violation simultaneously.
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In which we write 100 words using the prompt "Diary" thanks to Tara at Thin Spiral Notebook. I started two other entries, but, of course, they were too vulnerable ;-).
