Ellen found her daughter's diary, and has read it. She says she wishes she had not done this; I wish she had not too. She blames herself for her daughter's death. She thinks she failed her.
I have tried to explain to her about diaries. People who don't keep them do not understand how a diary does not reflect a whole person. People think diaries are truthful because they are private ~ but they forget how we censor ourselves, even unintentionally, when we write them, because we write what is burning us, we write what is drowning us, we write what overfills and starves us. But we almost never write, Everything is ordinary. I have no strong feelings about anything. It's all okay. Those kinds of thoughts rarely inspire much writing.
Wrapped in the centre of my ache for Ellen is the growing awareness that I must do something about my own diaries. Not that I have any plans of offing myself, but one never knows what unexpected things may happen. If I should happen to be killed in a car accident or carried off and eaten by a giant bird, I would not like my diaries to be found by anyone who loved me in case they took them as truth. The Whole Truth. And blamed themselves for anything.
Loved ones, if I am dead and you are reading this, I implore you to stop it immediately.
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