My Diaries
"Daddy shot his sef." Those were the first words I ever wrote in a diary. It was Christmas Eve, and I was eight years old. Five minutes after we found out my Dad had put a pistol to his chest and pulled the trigger my grandmother told me to grab a present from under the tree and she put me in a back bedroom to shield me from the chaos. After eavesdropping trying to absorb what was happening, I sat down on the bed and opened the gift. It has always seemed like serendipity to me that it was my first diary-- it landed in my lap on the night of my childhood I needed it most.
It was cornflower blue and read— "Days to Remember" on the front cover. "Daddy shot his sef" -- The words were in a permanent black marker-- they were wild and wounded like they might jump off the page and bite you. Along the bottom of the same page, I practiced writing in cursive in red Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas.
Diaries have been saving my life ever since. Writing is where I go to figure out how I feel. In middle school, when I stayed grounded to my bedroom for months at a time, it's how I kept my sanity and where I developed my self-soothing OCD of making lists, and writing down everything I wanted to remember. This gave me a tremendous advantage when I finally made it to Nashville because I had a list of song titles and ideas I'd been making since the sixth grade.
My diaries kept the secrets of my first kiss and my plan to marry Rick Springfield behind their little plastic gold locks. In ninth grade, when high school and hormones got the best of me. I could not take one more night alone in my room wondering what my friends we're doing at the skating rink, football games and spend the night parties. So, I wrote a dramatic "Goodbye World" letter in India ink with a quill pen and downed every pill in my mom's mirrored medicine cabinet with a strawberry Slim Fast drink.
My diaries were there when I prayed to win" Homecoming Queen" and accidentally burned our house down to the ground. Miraculously, all I could salvage from the fire were my diaries. They were in a black and white cow print, steel trunk in my closet. My little brother's baseball cards survived in a metal box too.
The diaries held all the guilt and sorrow that came with not being able to tell anyone I accidentally started the fire. What my journals held most of all —were all my dreams. I planned out my goals that I couldn't wait to achieve, where I wrote dramatic dark poetry trying to be like Sylvia Plath, where I made lists of every quality my dream guy would have.
They were there when I finally made it to Nashville and found myself waiting tables instead of writing songs. They were my most faithful friend when I was so lonely I thought I might disappear. They listened faithfully for years night after night of my longing for love and praying I would find my soulmate someday.
My diaries were there the first time my first husband beat me up. They hold passages like "He hit me so many times I can't move my arm, and I can't believe he bit me in the face— I'm scared he's gonna end up killing me. They were there when I made my get-a-way and was free for the first time in my life. My diaries were there when my dreams started coming true. They listened as I searched for who I was and wrote out who I wanted to be. They were there when I got nominated for a Grammy, and when I didn't win. They were there win I got nominated for Song of the year— and did.
They were there to hold the lyrics that turned into love songs when I found the man I had been looking for all my life. "My Best Friend" (Tim McGraw) "Amazed." The snippets of songs-- "Who You'd Be Today" (Kenny Chesney) "Every Time I Hear That Song" (Blake Shelton) and pieces of so many more.
My diaries were there when I got married in Sedona. They were there the night we found my Dad dead at his 49th birthday party and when each of my kids came into this world. My diaries were with me the first time I saw Paris and on every postcard adventure along the way.
For me-- nothing is real until I write it down. There's not a better friend and no better place to find the truth than to sit down and let it all go.
Everybody needs somewhere to put the pain and somewhere to put their dreams. Diaries are the one place where you can say anything- like a mirror they never lie-they only reveal the truth back to you whether you want to see it or not.
And now, writing is where I am going to try and understand what's going on— my fears about the future and my faith that everything is gonna be ok.
XO Love and Infinite Blessings!
