me, myself and mine

I once had a Strawberry Shortcake diary. I very carefully catalogued, with the help of its matching tiny pencil, all the most important happenings in the life of a 3rd grader. Field trips to New Jersey parks – yes, we do have them – and elementary school Field Days. I chronicled my first crush in vivid, two-line detail. How I loved Scott Toale; how I almost collapsed when he gave me his YMCA patch when I was 8 years old. At one point, and despite the trauma I don’t recall exactly who the perpetrator was, but someone found the diary. Its little gold lock was no match for his or her grubby fingers, and within seconds it gave up my secrets. Found out, I frantically erased the contents of every page.
Seems strange that a woman with such a traumatic diary history would splash her thoughts for all to read on the Internets, doesn’t it?

Strangely enough, this has always been a safe place for me because of the relative anonymity afforded me, given my teeny, tiny slice of the blog world. My family has so far respected my boundaries as far as these entries and pictures are concerned, something for which I am thankful. I know that the very existence of this site nearly kills my mother, who I am sure envisions archives full of Freudian references and photoshopped horns placed on each of her pictures. Over the years, others who I have asked to keep their distance, whether they be friends or dates, have and have not respected my wishes, but those past decisions are neither here nor there at this very moment in time.

Last night my mother called with several issues to put on the table. In rapid succession, she fired them off. I don’t actually remember what followed the first of these, however, because she opened the list with a simple, “Ok. So don’t write on your site about Mary. She’s looking for your blog.”

Come again?

Mary? I thought. Mary, the young friend of my mother who I’ve only met a few times, a woman new to her life for whose companionship my mother is truly thankful? I sat in silence for a few seconds, giving myself the space to make sure I had it right. No, I'm right; she’s my mother’s pal. A woman who I have no true interaction with or opinion of other than loving that my mom has such support in her life.

So why Mary would want access to a friend’s daughter’s blog, when my mother always indicates to others that, although very proud of my online endeavors, even she does not have “access” to this site, is really just beyond me. Is this really the place for you? Are there not other pursuits that allow you to indulge your curious – and if we’re all being honest with ourselves, probing – side? If all else fails, is there not a pantyless teenebrity on Melrose at whom you can gawk?

I’ve been down this road before. And each and every time it happens, I become momentarily bitter about imaginary boundaries that are crossed. I scan my mental archives to see if posts might be misinterpreted or in any way hurtful to people close to me, however unintentional. I wonder if pictures make me look as if I'm having too much fun, too little - do I appear to be a girl who is flirtatious, irritating, narcissistic? A tiny bit of panic sets in. Are mine the words of a woman who would make her parents proud?

These discoveries make me doubt and urge me to edit, to check content and the words I know without reservation that I chose carefully the first time I wrote them. I hate that reaction with every ounce of my being. This is mine. And with every intrusion I feel like a kid again, hiding in my closet to write in that miniature pink diary. Only this time, I very much want to resist erasing any of the pages.