The Diary of an Only Child

Utmost loneliness is usually how I describe growing up as an only child to the countless friends who ask me, dumbfounded at the thought of a sibling less life. I never say this for pity or attention but rather to be truthful. During my childhood it was extremely onerous trying to find things to keep me busy; I had elderly neighbors, hard working parents, and no pets so I often found myself bound to boredom.

As I try to recall my childhood, racking my brain for memories to recount, duplicated days rapidly rush into my head, as if the days had been portrayed on a photocopier and given a different date. As I ponder these lonely moments I often get transported into them; hearing the heart wrenching silence, accepting the distressed emotions, and attaching to the awkward atmosphere. Countless nights glued to the same book, sitting in the same spot, surrounded by utter silence of my empty house. I remained lost in the distress, content with the smell of freshly printed pages, and living the lives of the fantasized characters. I read for hours on end, scared to look up and face the eyes of fatigue, I would read until the words became letters mixed up in a bowl of jumbled alphabet soup. Accepting my fate into the lost generation of technology, I would then become absorbed into the vile and utterly ugly internet, seeking a way out of my confined boredom. No matter how many websites I explored each one was more disappointing then the next, boring solutions for boredom, sexist girly games, and terrible youtube videos.

 In the beginning of 2010 I was barbarically pulled from my hole of contentment, with the groundbreaking release of “The Diary of a Wimpy Kid” by Jeff Kinney. In my mind it was a literary masterpiece, technique and style never to be seen in the writing world. I was fascinated by Greg Heffly, not only because of his relatable awkwardness, but his irritability with the world around him. I became a criminal at age eight, replicating what I read and grabbing the only notebook I owned--a hot pink, fluffy fur diary with a lock and key included--and beginning to write the misadventures, daily embarrassments, and common attributes that occurred in my thrilling eight-year-old life. My diary was filled with utter nonsense, trivial boy troubles, girly gossip, and senseless sentences, but I began to express myself in ways I had never done before. Suddenly I was ending each day with “Dear Diary” and slowly becoming my childhood hero, Greg Heffly.

As I got older and grew out of my hot pink double-locked diary, I started journaling a little more seriously. Each January I made an investment and a promise to myself by buying a designer agenda notebook complete with twelve months, fifty two weeks, and three hundred sixty five days worth of writing. Journaling became my craft, a way to not only escape from my lonely boredom but a way to grow in many more ways than one. Being an only child suddenly wasn’t so bad anymore as my agenda book became my sibling, best friend, and companion all in one; it became someone I could tell everything to, entrusting it would keep my secrets. I was able to become aware and live in the moment, performing each day with the goal to top my previous entry. By writing every thought, moment, and event I was able to reflect on my past and grow from my many mistakes. I stopped sulking in boredom and learned to become self aware and appreciate myself in so many ways. I began to understand why people made the cautious or courageous commitments in their lives and openly learned from their achievements and downfalls. In my mind, I had the best superpower, the ability to analyze the world around me in a deeper way as well as acknowledge the power of independence at such a young age. In a very subtle way writing allowed me to realize I didn’t need to rely on others in order to feel safe or assured. But in a very complicated, complex, and mixed up type of way I only really have my parents to thank for making me an only child, without my many wistful lonely childhood years, searching for a way out, I would have never found the passion that allowed me to truly find myself.

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Externalizing Identity

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Finding My Senses