I started keeping a diary at 14. During those tumultuous days my mother was married to husband number three and he was barely 10 years my senior. I still don't understand whatever possessed her to marry him although I can well imagine what possessed him to marry her. After all, I was the hapless object of his crude advances until I finally got out of there. One should not speak ill of the dead, or so I've been told, but he was one sick perverted puppy.

It was a truly trying time for the teenage girl that I was; already lost and confused with my growing up and oft mental confusions, I had no outlet for my frustrations and heartaches. I started a diary. Carefully hidden under my pillow I faithfully jotted down disjointed thoughts and was as brutally honest with my paper friend as I could never be with anyone else. Until one day my step-father announced that he had read it and I got the beating of my life. I guess he didn't like my candid evaluations of his deformed brain.

Since then, I've started keeping diaries through the years, especially during my less than happy marriages. One thing I never could do again is brutally honest and pour my soul into this self-help tool. I always wrote with the underlying fear that someone would eventually get their hands on it and read it. Such a breach of privacy and trust can never be restored with the reader. My most intimate thoughts are not the bestseller of the day nor did (or would) I ever invite anyone to do so. I censored myself and consequently the value of keeping a diary in the first place was nil. I may as well have been working on a novel.

Since I am no longer in a relationship and my son has no interest in my inner workings (I am just mom and a non-person) I do believe I will give it another try. To bear my soul and have a dialogue with myself could be therapeutic and provide some relief. Lord knows I need it! The cynical me of today is not someone I like very much most of the time. I long for the joy that I was able to experience before I got whacked over the head with reality. And boy did it ever whack me hard.

I suppose you could deduce that writing a blog is therapeutic in a way since I am writing. However, I am censoring myself and most of the thoughts that need to be said out loud never make it on this page of mine. They may be implied - but never expressed. I have no idea who is reading my rantings on a regular basis or who is simply engaging in a little drive-by reading when landing here through some random Google search.

I argue with myself on this point quite a bit. Do I really expect anyone to read between the lines of a blog? Most folks don't have that sort of patience cruising Web 2.0. Information overload is not conducive to keeping any one's interest for long. Besides, if I really ripped lose someone might call the paddy waggon. Ha!

I'm feeling a bit contemplative tonight, but I am 40something and I'm entitled dammit.