When I was twelve, I had this Keith Haring journal. It was white and had his signature multi-colored dancing men all over it. I'd scribble all of my exploits in it. ALL OF THEM. I wrote about the sneaking out, the smoking, the drinking, the drugs, and the boys...oh the boys. Every. torrid. little detail.
One day, I went skittering off to a friends house and then suddenly felt this sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Did I stuff my diary back in between my mattress? (how original)
Yeah, I must have, no worries...
I didn't. I'd accidentally left it out. My mother found it. *GASP* She read it. Every. torrid. little detail. I came home and her face was white, null. She called me into my room and I spotted it, there, in her clutches.
"FUCKING TRAITOR! I can't believe you told her all of my secrets!" I shrieked in my head.
She broke down in tears and told me how she couldn't believe how I could've turned out to be such a bad kid. The watering continued as she told me how she couldn't believe how she could've turned out to be such a bad mother.
I started bawling, too. I just tucked up into her side and apologized profusely while begging for forgiveness. I said I was so so so sorry and promised to be good.
After we dried out and she assured me that she still loved me, she told me that I was stupid and if I was going to do bad stuff, then I should NEVER WRITE IT DOWN.
A great life lesson. Don't self incriminate by leaving a paper trail.
After the incident, I ripped the diary to shreds with my bare hands and flushed it down the toilet. That was the day my mother became my best friend. We lived happily ever after. Part of me wishes that I still had it. It would've made for such a good read now-a-day.