From 2003 until 2011 I kept a scattered diary of my life. When one notebook was filled another one was bought to replace it, then covered in stickers, poetry, inside jokes I don’t remember anymore, and now nameless phone numbers. In 2004 when I was 12 years old my mental illness began making its first appearances and though a diary is considered a place to share your deepest secrets, I kept my real problems out of it. I believed that if I didn’t write down what was happening then it wasn’t real. Instead I wrote awful poetry, professed my hatred for how I looked, and shared my shame over the fact that boys paid no attention to me but fawned over my pretty, outgoing best friend. Looking back at these journals is extremely painful for me because I remember the terrible struggle I was going through and I can sense the glaring absence of details about my true mental state at the time.