I was recently discussing the topic of journaling with a friend when I confided that I have always had a fear of being too revealing on paper. My diary entries, though few and far between, are filled with unsatisfying and sketchy detail. When reading back over them, sometimes I can’t even remember the characters or circumstances to which the cryptic accounts refer.

My fear is partially due to the fact that to write something down is to pretty much acknowledge that something is true or valid. I have the fantastical notion that as long as something remains unverbalized, there’s a good chance it’s not real. I’m sure I should seek counseling for this.

My other (perhaps somewhat irrational) fear is that I’ll die unexpectedly and not be able to destroy my diaries before the estate sale, or more likely, before my family cleans out my room and my innermost thoughts are revealed. In all likelihood, the most interesting details one could glean from my diary would be a something along the lines of how DK BU with EV and now we R BF4VR – OMG!

When I’m not dreaming up obscure code words and puzzles, I swing to the opposite extreme and take great care to craft clever sentences which cast me in the best possible light - a true saint, struggling to come to terms with both self and humanity at large. If somebody’s going to be reading this stuff eventually, I want them to think well of me at least.

So, my journals are filled with either a mess of meaningless acronyms or a string of words so eloquent and self-effacing you would think Mother Teresa herself had penned them.

If my cat could slip an occasional entry into my journal, I’m sure her words would be much less flattering and far more accurate. But until she learns to properly wield a pen (or keyboard), anyone who sneaks a peek will have to be content with my poetic half-truths (a.k.a. P H-Ts).