Child No More

Author's Note: Writing this essay was difficult. It's about a journal I kept when I was 11-12. If you want to see it, let me know. I wrote the worst things that could come to my mind about anyone who would make me feel miserable. The essay focuses on my recollections as I conversed with myself at 12, and then my mom finding it. Confrontation followed, but it was a poignant moment where I know that there was something different about me. (This was around the same time where I confirmed in my mind that me being different had to do with me being gay.)

But even moreso, the essay is about growing up with no strong foundation. Sure, you have a roof over your head, you're fed well, and you have a family that is together. Thank God for that. But, it almost felt like being a plant growing in the middle of a rockbed, if you can get what I'm saying.

If anyone has the chance to, look back to the things that you wrote when you were a kid. What you find can really be mindblowing. Comments, Questions, and Thoughts are always welcome.

Kwame


I found it a month ago in an untouched drawer in my father’s closet. How did it get there? It was exactly the same as I had last seen it. Six years ago, I had written the last entry. Memories began to flood my mind. The years in between seemed to dissolve.

The spine was destroyed, the pages torn, the cover almost unreadable. There was the faint outline of a red convertible, a darkened mountain in the background. The word journal, barely legible, was printed on the top. This diary, in the hands of the child who kept it was the author’s repository of all he thought, all he felt, all he believed to be true. It was his confidant, his nonjudgmental friend. It was salvation.

The child author used this journal to express whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, without fear of being scolded, berated or reproved. Sections were scribbled, forced in a flurry. The writer’s entries expressed volumes of anguish, frustration and sadness. There were no restrictions on what he could say. He was the sole reader. The journal would never be found. The writer had found his safe haven, his emotional and psychological retreat.

I closed my eyes and tried to remember that child. He was eleven years old or maybe younger. He had two loving parents, a brother and sister. Surrounded by hearth and home, comforted in the knowledge he was loved, the child should have been happy. Was he in fact happy? No, I remember. The child was not happy at all. He was being derided for being different. He could not identify with his friends, their dreams of becoming famous athletes, macho music artists, heartthrobs. At home it was no better. He was miserable.

The writer was melodramatic, a child who took refuge in his journal, his best and most reliable companion. This was where his voice could sing loud and clear, unafraid of being heard, being judged by anyone.

Turning the pages, I recalled the night my mother discovered my most sacred secret possession. She found my journal.

We had just had an argument about chores. I stalked out of the room, I would use my journal to vent my frustration, my anger. Unbeknownst to me, she followed me. She saw me feverishly penning words of venom. She grabbed it. She began to read every word, every curse, every insult I had held inside about her, my family, my friends, I was exposed.

She looked up in painful surprise, “Why did you not tell me how angry you feel?”

You never listened was my immediate response. Oddly enough, I suddenly felt liberated. I had been discovered. That was true. Uncovered, I was suddenly discovered. My journal was no longer my only save haven. I could, I realized, tell the world who I was.

The words of a lonely, troubled child released the spirit of a strong, independent young man. That child is no more.