Finally fully moving out of the family home (cheers law school debt), and came across a packed drawer full of my old journals, ranging from the ages of about 10 to 21. There are dozens upon dozens of the things. Full to the brim with teenage angst, philosophical musings, dreams and desires, lists of children's names, crushes, first impressions and a whole ton of stories.
It's all terribly self-indulgent stuff, but far from anything like Bridget Jones' prose, and I actually do treasure what I wrote as a young girl. I can't bear to read most of them though, particularly the dark and dismal, yet it all remains part of my identity and personal history, something I simply cannot yet let go of. They all feel too important to simply discard.
Nonetheless, the time has come for me to move out and start afresh. This level of sentimentality is just stupid. I've managed to throw everything else away, putting to one side only the good and beautiful memories of school/ travels/ university/ my DP. For both my own and my DP's sake, I ought to burn the lot. All thirty of them.
AIBU to still want to keep them, somehow? Anaïs Nin style?
Anyone else kept theirs?