I don’t often share the inner workings of my own mind like most people. Recently, the narcissism of my 19 year old mind has taken over the best of me though so, they will now see the light of day. Here are four entries from my journals detailing my teenage years.

“I am writing this because in case I die young, I will have a notebook filled with my thoughts for people to read and hear my story... This probably won’t be interesting, but I hope for it to be. Because things sound better if they are written like a book.” – age 12

What a bleak way to start off the first entry that would lead to an addiction lasting the entirety of my teenage years. This is by far my best entry out of the hundred page journal I wrote in for the next 12 months. I wanted to write not because it was fun, not because it was good to write down some memories, but because I was so sure my diary would be published for all to read. Wasn’t I just the most precocious girl in the world? Everyone else was so bland, but I had thousands of wonderfully witty thoughts that the world was obviously dying to hear!

Speaking of dying, what was it with me and the idea of dying young scattered so often between the pages of my journal? For some reason, unbeknownst to me, I was infatuated with the thought of my own death. I practiced crying after I received my fake cancer diagnoses; I dreamt I would die nearly every night; I routinely wrote new “death letters” where I would thank my best friends at the time for their love and then divide up my stuffed animals and dolls in a very legal way. Although I have since outgrown this childhood delusion that I would be the Beth March of my family, I do wonder why it took up so much of my consciousness. Was I so bored in middle class suburbia that it was the only story I could keep myself entertained with? Maybe I really did like to cry, so dreaming of a world without me in it was the easiest way to get the Academy Award winning tears flowing. No matter the reason, my fears of death would eventually grow dimmer.

And so began diary number one. A blue metallic journal featuring a young blonde on a polar bear would absorb my dreams and meltdowns. Surely it was far from the next Pulitzer Prize, but at the time it gave me so much more confidence in myself. It was an escape and a judgment free zone to write down the best gossip of the seventh grade, like the unfolding of my friend group or the arrival of the drug dogs outside of the cafeteria; or worse, my crush on the boy in my math class who I had talked to once. That was a secret I vowed to take to the grave.

“My friend’s have been saying I need guy friends at school to like someone and for them to like me. But my friend group and everything, it’s just not that simple.” – age 13

A moment of silence for 13 year old me deciding that being friends with a boy would just cause too much drama. She knew what was ahead of her time because hanging out with boys would inevitably lead to some fairytale teenage romance that would take me away from everything and start World War III within my friend group. The idea of a boyfriend took up about 73% of my brain in eighth grade. Going into high school having been single your whole life? Oh, the humility! I had discussed in detail with my friends how to obtain one. We decided any boy who was not blonde (obviously we couldn’t end up on “siblings or dating”) and didn’t make crude jokes in the hallway would work perfectly. I wasn’t picky. Not only were there about three eligible bachelors in the whole grade, but my entire friend group all wanted them. So, out of the kindness of my heart, I took one for the team and stayed away from boys. Or perhaps I was timid, shy and insecure and had absolutely no interest in being rejected from a boy with half-decent grammar. Somehow, I survived entering high school with no boyfriend. What a miracle.

“After all the mess of Halloween, we were 50’s girls. We did trick-or-treat and sent 8 year olds to do our bidding (ding dong ditch [our other friends] on their Halloween dates)” – age 14

Were you a loser like me? From the bottom of my heart, I sure hope you were because my night of trick-or-treating was one of my most memorable nights. A time where everyone was inducted into the wildness of their teen years, I went trick-or-treating, but not by choice. I wasn’t that much of a loser. Sure, if someone begged me to crack open a cold one, I could have been convinced. Alas, I wasn’t offered any illegal substances or invitations to the no-parents-home-ragers, so like any 14 year-old forced to trick-or-treat, I decided to make the most of it. As long as no one at school knew,and only after I rolled my eyes at my mother taking our photo who was eternally grateful her daughter had a few more years of childhood left in her.

Although, ending my night with a pillowcase full of candy was truly the dream even if I would never admit it at the time. After four miles of walking from house to house, I had acquired a whopping thirty pounds of candy. Plus, paying off some fifth graders to ding-dong-ditch all of our friends who were watching horror movies with their boyfriends was quite the thrill. We were sure to interrupt all of their hand holding, and they would be so jealous of us pranking houses. What a beautiful goodbye to my childhood Halloween days.

On the other hand, all I did this year was ruin a pair of Vans from walking through the mud for three days straight. I didn’t get one piece of candy from anyone! Sue me, but I miss a classic Halloween night like the one I had at 14 with both treats and tricks.

“I used to be so much nicer and not in a childhood innocence way or ‘now I'm going through changes’ way, but I just used to be a better person. I’m mean now. I can’t just say things like this to my friends… I don’t want people to perceive me as boring and just easy to walk over. So, like, I gotta be kinda sarcastic and closed off… I’m scared of judgment and being a burden or whatever.” – age 16

Wow, sixteen year old me sounded like she was not having a jolly ol’ dandy time. To be honest, it was a disaster of an age. All I could ever focus on was the time that was slipping away. All around me, people wanted to grow up so fast. The way I was dressing did a complete 180. I lost interest in most of my hobbies. College pamphlets flooded my mailbox. I was so lonely and cried everyday.

Everyone already knows 16 is the age to be. Yet when the day finally came, it was not picture perfect. Unfortunately, all of my insecurities remained, no Jake Ryan in sight, and my emotional intelligence was that of a snail’s (16 year old me would have argued this part profusely). On top of dying young consuming my mind, the thought that I was boring was number one on the list at that age. It was obsessive. Everything I did was built around some character I created in my head to avoid being seen as a little kid. Between my friends, I was always the one looked at like I was still in third grade, and it bugged me to no end. Why did everyone else get to enjoy the luxury of push-up bras and sneaking out while I was the token boring friend they could look down on?

It’s at this time where I would like to note my friends were lovely people. If it wasn’t clear enough from the journal entry, I was in a state of total teenage ignorance and self absorption because there was no room in my mind for me to rationalize anything. My fear of being boring was not rooted in reality. Instead, it was simply my way of bringing to life the abstract idea of time and change.

I would like to close with a big thanks to my most recent journal (diary) that features a metallic scene from Alice in Wonderland on the cover. Hopefully, I don’t go back and reread you with as much embarrassment and tears as I did with my journals ages 12-18. With luck, I reread you with as much humor and delight, as my mind stands timeless between the pages of my journals.

Written by Thea Findlay, Photography: Zayna Sayyed, Social Media: Spurthi Challa, Styling: Krystal Corral

Dear Diary