Diaries, Kylie, and The Life of Riley
When I was in primary school I wrote in my diary each day. Daily nothings (but everything at the time) that went something like …
Dear Diary, today was ok. Chris S didn’t play with me. I don’t think he likes me. Mrs De Ridder told me off again. She always tells me off for nothing. I like Miss Cavanagh better. I’ve got so much homework. I’m just gonna finish watching Sale of the Century with dad and then I’ll do it. Benny Hill is on tonight too. I might watch that. Anyway, that’s all for now. Seeya tomorrow.
I would turn the flimsy key in the dodgy, easily-breakable lock and lay my diary to rest for another 24 hours.
Mum found the key one day and took to reading what her youngest was up to each day. It was innocent enough, or so I thought, but according to mum I was too young to be writing about a boy. I got a yelling, and that diary was never to be seen again.
In high school I learned to hide my diary key, and the diary, a lot better. I didn’t write each day. But when I did there was more deep and meaningful stuff. I wrote about my friends, the boys (yes, more boy stuff) we hung out with, my thoughts and feelings… You know, teenage girl stuff.
In the years that followed I would read back over the pages and re-live the moments. The memories would flood in, and I’d laugh. Did I really write that? Did I really think that? How embarrassing!
One day I decided those words no longer held importance. I tore each page of each diary til there were memories no more. “I’m not that person now”, I thought. I had grown up, I thought. Those words no longer belonged to me. Except they did. They always will. Because they came from me and they were mine.
Just recently I’ve begun writing “just for me” once again. It’s not called a diary these days, It’s a journal, and I admit, journalling is quite therapeutic. While I’m repeating days gone by of putting my thoughts and feelings and muse into the written word, I also wonder if in time I’ll repeat the feelings of embarrassment, disregard and denial that this person I am right now, is indeed, the real me.
It’s a reflection I think, of the common tale that we don’t always accept ourselves for who we are. Like Kylie, cringing at her Locomotion days. I’ve seen more than one interview where she’s screwed up her face (as much as it can screw… if you know what I mean) while being interviewed about her early years. But Kylie’s early years made her. Kylie’s yesterday is the foundation of what has made the Kylie of today.
We can’t step back in time, and nor should we. But loving who we were way back when, so we can appreciate who we are right here, right now, is a large chunk of what makes a person happy.
The life of Riley sounds nice. The life of me even better.