If My Friends or Family Ever Read My Diary, I’d Have to Flee the Country

Yes, I am 41 and I keep a diary.

Not a bullet journal.

Not a gratitude notebook.

A full-blown, messy, unfiltered diary.

The kind with tear-stained pages, dramatic entries written at 2 a.m., and at least four different pen colors depending on my mood swings.

It’s not cute. It’s chaos. It’s a safe space for every petty thought, emotional spiral, questionable situationship, passive-aggressive friendship rant, and middle-of-the-night existential crisis that doesn’t belong on the internet (yet).

People journal to heal. I diary to survive.

To document the drama.

To remember the details.

To keep receipts in case I ever need to argue with myself later.

So go ahead. Judge me while you post your feelings in vague Instagram captions.

I’ll be over here writing a five-page entry about how I nearly cried in the grocery store because someone looked at me like he used to.

So, yes, I keep a diary.

Because therapy is expensive and my memory is trash.

And let me be clear: if my friends or family ever got their hands on my diary, it would not just be embarrassing. It would be biblical. Like, dogs-falling-from-the-sky, mass-resignations, "we-need-to-have-a-family-meeting" level chaos.

Let’s start with my mom.

She still thinks I’m a “sweet girl.”

My diary says otherwise.

My diary knows about that one night after the Kevin Hart show back in 2015. The one with the pilot, the late night back at my place, and the edible that hit mid-kiss. If she ever read that entry, she’d not only call a priest—she’d fly one in from Rome and have him bless my apartment via FaceTime.

My BFF?

She’d absolutely disown me.

She’d get to the part where I detail every single time I’ve wanted to throw her gluten-free muffins out the window and she’d snap. I mean full-blown, blacklisted-from-the-family-group-chat snap. And when she reads that I once pretended to be sick to avoid her essential oils sales party? Oh, it’s over. Blood or not—she’s gone.

And my friends?

God help me.

If any of them ever peeked at just one page, I’d be socially exiled within minutes.

They’d find nicknames I’ve given them (“Spicy Divorce Barbie,” “Emotional Support Goblin,” “That One Who Still Dates Men Named Kyle”), brutally honest opinions about their exes, and at least two detailed revenge fantasies that involved passive-aggressively liking someone’s old Instagram posts from 2017. (You know who you are.)

There’s also an entire section dedicated to my personal FBI investigations.

My theories. The late-night social media deep dives. The screenshots. The arrows and red circles. If anyone reads that, I’ll be institutionalized or hired by Interpol. There’s no in-between.

But worst of all?

The love entries.

The ones about him.

Y’all. If he read those? I would literally burst into flames. They’re a mix of poetry, thirst, emotionally unstable texting drafts, and detailed fantasies about running into him at a bookstore while holding a copy of something smart and emotionally devastating. Like The Bell Jar. Or a receipt for my dignity.

So no.

You cannot read my diary.

No one can. Not now. Not ever.

When I die, it goes in the fire. First thing. Before the funeral even starts. I want my best friend to swan-dive into my closet, find the box under my sweaters, and yeet it into oblivion.

Because if even one person reads it…

There won’t be a eulogy.

There will be a roast.

And I’m not going out like that.

~smy