I can still picture that day clearly. I walked through the door after school to find my mom sitting on my bed with an expression that told me something was off. She motioned for me to take a seat, and my heart raced with curiosity and dread.
She claimed she had been “cleaning” my room when she “accidentally” discovered my diary. Instantly, my skepticism kicked in. My mother had never taken on the task of tidying up my space, and my diary was intentionally hidden beneath a heap of notebooks and loose papers. It was not the kind of thing someone would stumble upon by chance.
After sharing her concerns about what she had read, she grounded me for a whole month. There was no room for discussion, no chance for a thoughtful conversation. From my perspective, she had betrayed my trust and then punished me for it.
In response, I blew up. I might have shouted, “I hate you!”—I’m sure I did.
The truth is, I was a confused teenager for a multitude of reasons. While I wasn’t into drugs, I did have my share of reckless weekends filled with partying and sometimes driving while under the influence. I felt overwhelmed by relationships and the complexities of growing up in a home that was anything but stable. My rebellious behavior was my way of coping.
Looking back, I realize I was also crying out for my mother’s attention. I experimented with my appearance, shaved my head, and sought the company of alternative crowds. I dressed in all black, wore heavy eyeliner, and made my hair spiky white. I had a string of boyfriends, some of whom were much older and far too intense for me. My antics were essentially a loud plea: PAY ATTENTION TO ME!
I understand why she felt the urge to delve into my diary for answers, even though my struggles were evident. She was aware of the toll that divorce had taken on our family, not just on me but on my siblings as well. She saw my downward spiral and wanted to intervene.
As a writer, my journal likely appeared to her as a roadmap to understanding my turmoil. Unfortunately, rather than using it to connect with me, she focused on the negative aspects—like my reckless driving and questionable relationships—missing the bigger picture of my emotional state. Instead of seeing my diary as a lifeline, she viewed it as a catalog of misdeeds, leading to punishment rather than understanding.
You might be surprised to know that I can’t promise I won’t sneak a peek at my daughters’ future diaries. They’re still young now, but soon enough, they’ll be teenagers navigating their own minefields. If I sense troubling behavior, I can’t deny that I might feel compelled to investigate.
I believe my mother’s intentions were likely similar to mine. Should I find myself in that position, I hope to approach it differently. I want to acknowledge my breach of privacy and own my actions. I’d say, “I’m worried about you. I can’t reach you, and that’s why I looked.” I wouldn’t punish them for their private thoughts. Instead, I’d ask questions and offer support because my love for them is unconditional.
Ultimately, teenagers are open books, even when their diaries are tucked away. They often lack real insight into their actions, and their behavior is a reflection of their mental state. If you only see chaos, it’s essential to dig deeper and understand the reasons behind it. Take action if needed, but don’t forget to listen to what your child has to say. They may just provide the guidance you both need.
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In summary, while I recognize the violation I felt when my mother read my diary, I can’t dismiss the instinct to understand my daughters’ experiences. Ultimately, fostering an open dialogue and a trusting relationship will always be my priority.
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