Day Five

That’s why I knew last night while I was lying in bed, listening to dad in his bedroom racking his lungs with another one of those god-awful coughing fits, that if I didn’t resolve this today I would never do it. I had to do something. I had to walk through my fear, and if a deaf, dumb and blind woman could walk through her fears until she was old and grey, which must have been mountainous – can you actually imagine never seeing daylight, never hearing another voice, never singing at the top of your voice? – then surely I could walk through mine. But I also knew that if I didn’t do it today – now – then nothing would ever change, and that scares me more than dad’s coughing fits, so you kind of get the picture how bad it is. In fact, I was awake till after two in the morning worrying about it. My mind was whirring faster than the needle on my Janome when I’ve got a deadline to meet. I kept thinking about what mum used to say before… well, before you know what. “Find yourself a good man. Fall in love. Have kids. Money doesn’t matter. It’s what’s in your heart that really makes you happy.” And there I was, lying in bed with no man, no love, no kids, no money, and a heart that felt heavy and incomplete.

Day Four

So what was the real reason that brought me here to my desk and this little leather-bound book? Fear, if I’m going to be honest with myself (and that’s what diaries are all about, aren’t they, opening your heart and being honest?). Fear. Geez, I hate that word. “You have nothing to fear but fear itself.” Who said that? I can’t remember, but it doesn’t make sense, does it? When you’ve got fear, it’s usually for a good reason. Usually means somebody’s going to do harm to you, or take something away from you that you need or love. Fear is normal, isn’t it? A part of life. Only problem is, it makes your legs go to jelly. Not to mention your mind, whizzing around in panic like chickens with a fox loose in the coop. Fear makes you useless. Still, I always remember the quote from that lady who was deaf, dumb and blind. What was her name? Anne Frank. No, that was someone else. Helen Keller. That’s her. She said, “Fear. The only way out is through.”

Day Three

But it’s not quite as bad as all that, thank goodness. My hand is trying its best. It’s not its fault. Stickiness is probably not the right word. Tightness, maybe, and perhaps if I keep my hand moving the more chance that it’ll give like a piece of old elastic in a hemline that’s lost its stretch: just one more tug and then it’ll give up the ghost (oops, there I go again with my mixed metaphors!). Seems all I have to do is tell my hand one more time what it’s supposed to do – write – and all the stretch-resistance will disappear. Anyway, that’s the plan, but it would be so much easier if some bright spark invented a machine that could make thoughts jump straight from your head onto the page, wouldn’t it? Attach a few wires to your head and Bob’s your uncle, a whole page of instant thoughts. Then you wouldn’t have to worry about writer’s block and rusty wrists. Now there’s an idea. Would also save a lot of time and make things a lot easier than having to write everything down and invariably get it all wrong. Especially for someone like me, you know, someone who failed Ms Williams’ year-10 English class, who’s always getting tongue-tied and never seems able to find the right words to say at the best of times (“There you go, always putting your foot in your mouth,” mum would have said!). But, after all that, here goes anyway, “Take 2.”

Day Two

Geez, what’s wrong with me? I’ve been staring at these blank pages for over ten minutes thinking how to put into words what I want to say… and nothing! Absolutely nothing. I guess I’ve got what people in the publishing world call “writer’s block.” Not a very nice feeling, I must say. You know you’ve got so much to tell and write about, but your hand stays frozen like a statue (oops, that’s probably what Ms Williams, my old English teacher at Seaview High, called a mixed metaphor!) and, well, the upshot is that I now know what the tin man in The Wizard of Oz felt like when Dorothy stumbled upon him in Wonderland (or was that Alice, or have I gotten my stories completely mixed up again?). Anyway, not that I need a new heart in my empty chest (or maybe I do, because this one seems awfully heavy and fragile at the moment), only that when it comes to saying what I really want to say my body seems to be full of rust. I need some kind of oil – some kind of emotional lubrication, I guess – to free up all the stickiness in my mouth and hands and mind.

Day One

Dear Diary,

Is that how things start, “Dear Diary”? I don’t know. I’ve never done this before. I feel kind of silly, really, Bridget Jones kind of silly if you ask me. Writing was never my kind of thing, especially journals and notebooks and stuff like that. Always felt it was like talking to yourself. In a way, it is, isn’t it? And you know what they say about people who talk to themselves, don’t you? I might be lots of other things, but I don’t think I’m mad. Not yet (ha ha!). Then again, Bridget Jones wasn’t mad was she? And if you think about it, things kind of worked out for her in the end didn’t they? Found her true love, her Prince Charming, and all that. So maybe this diary thing has something in it for me too. No harm in trying. That’s what dad always says, “No harm in trying. You’ve got to be in it to win it.” So here goes…