When I was 22, I bought a book called, Post Secret. It was a book that came out of a community art project. The idea was crafted by a gentlemen that invited people to mail an anonymous secret on a post. 

This was before social media craze. He started posting the secrets on his website. 

It eventually grew into a book in 2005. I believe there have been many editions printed since.

This book was everything to me. Reading people's secrets were terrifyingly beautiful and uncomfortably relatable

At the time, I was spending most of my weekends popping pills and drinking often to the point of blacking out. 

(Which was relatively tame compared to some of the nights we spent walking across the border into Tijuana at 18. Stories for another time)

I want to type: "you know, we acted like typical 20-something year olds."

But I don't know if that is typical 20-something behavior to buy drugs and drown in vodka all night long.

I was doing what everybody else was doing around that time. Like when I started having sex in my teens. I only did it because everybody else around me was doing it (so I thought and so some made me to believe).

I did really fucked up things. 

Anyway, I was obsessed with this book, Post Secret. I had it on the coffee table in my apartment. My boyfriend, at the time thought it was kind of weird. 

"Why do you want to know stuff about other people like that?!"


It made me feel less fucked up myself. 


That is when I started really writing in a journal.

I wrote secrets to myself. 

And I've been writing them ever since

In that process, I've become less afraid of myself. 

I don't have to hold onto guilt or shame

I've made awful mistakes. 

I've hurt people I love. 

Some secrets don't have any finishes, life lessons. They just are.

When I would fill a journal, I'd toss it.

I kinda wish I hadn't tossed the some of them. 

Maybe that's my only regret. 

Oh well, there's plenty of life to fill in the now, anyway.