My Diary Is Not Written By Me – Loraine Valladolid

MY DIARY IS NOT WRITTEN BY ME

-Loraine Valladolid, Liceo de Calamba

Dear Diary, 

This morning felt like the end of noon. I have so many things to talk about: the food I ate and the things my friend told me. I have so many things to share, but with no one but myself. Everything my friend told me feels like a threat to my breath, a shadow looming over my thoughts.

I think I’ve been maintaining this facade of vulnerability and weakness because I’m afraid that if someone could read my mind, they would see me as a fool rather than the face I try to show to the world.

In truth, there are no voices in my head telling me to kill myself anymore. It’s a whisper from my mind urging me to break my sobriety, though. To smoke a cigarette and press a knife against my skin. To kiss my heart and bite my tongue. To lament my nostalgia and stay there forever. It’s easier to tell someone that I want to die than to admit that I want to continue living. Yet, there’s this heavy feeling I can’t seem to shake, an itch forming at the back of my throat, and a guilt that gnaws at me as my scars begin to fade. I’m terrified that I’ll forget what happened to me, and that my pain will never be validated again.

So, I started digging through my mother’s Facebook account again, staring at the innocent face of my younger self, and at my mother’s lively smile, trying to ignore the fact that I’m now wearing the shirts she left behind five years ago. As always, I ended up a wreck – ugly crying and staring at myself in the mirror, holding up a peace sign in a futile attempt to cheer myself up. I felt foolish. I longed for touch, yet I was repulsed by the idea of human contact, unable to bear anyone’s tenderness as it only reminded me of my own ruin.

Instead of keeping my promise to my grandmother to never hide again, I retreated back into the cramped closet, thinking that maybe this is what it feels like to die. Thinking that the clothes embracing my bruised body are my mother’s ghost, telling me that everything is going to be fine.

I feel so guilty for breaking the promise of never acting crazy again, so I made a pledge to myself:

I will clean my room and no longer hide the ashes from when the smoke lingered on the roof of my mouth. I will sweep away the dust from when I was entranced by fire and burned the pages of my book. I will stack the papers from my failed academic attempts.And I will break the blade in half and hide the pieces in different crevices of this room, knowing they will be forever lost, and when I search for them, I will be left as the mirror of my 12-year-old self. 

I feel like such a fool.

I’m such a shame. 

I’ll probably never write my name in my diary ever again.