Today I tore away at my past. Ripped apart the pages of the five diaries I had utilized to record down the occurances, feelings and emotions over the past eight over years. The pieces were unceremoniously discarded of, and remain at the bottom of our recycling bin.
If I am going to die, I do not want my innermost thoughts being intruded upon by my parents or any other unwanted guests.
I am hit with a slight pang when I realise that memories and insights into my mind as an eleven year old, twelve year old and onward are henceforth destroyed, forever gone. However, the alternative is worse, whereby it is realised how pathetic and oversensitive I was as a child and still am. Because according to my mother, being bullied and forever left out by my peers during the school years is my own fault for ‘not being a nice person’ and really not all that big a deal. As for my father, I refuse to let it be seen by him and others how much he hurt me emotionally while I was growing up.
So do I regret my actions? For the most part, no. But I do regret that it has come to this.