Last night at dinner I decided to do a dramatic reading from my junior high journal. I can't remember what prompted it, but I left the table and retrieved it from my desk drawer. It's been in there for the past few months, ever since I found it while going through a box of stuff in the basement. I started reading, thinking it would be kind of funny, but it fell a little flat.
I don't remember being an overly dramatic child, but most pages were sprayed with my melodrama. There was a lot of hatred directed toward my mom, which I feel terrible about. There was a lot of complaint about having to clean my room, which was always a disaster. There was an over-arching theme of my plight as the put-upon middle child, the one who nobody understood and yet expected to be perfect.
"Where are the happy parts?" Christian asked.
That's the problem. I didn't write those down. Oops.
I got out the journal in hopes of connecting with Christian, as evidence that I actually was his age once and might have a clue about the thoughts running through his head. And after reading through a few entries together, he and I certainly gained a new understanding of one another. I understand now that he's not nearly as difficult and moody as I'd been thinking, and he now understands that I'm completely nuts.