Dear Diary,

Last week I wrote something at the last minute. I didn’t do it impulsively. I let my husband read it. He said not to change a thing. Still, I felt something was missing. You know me better, and you know exactly the parts I left out, and with good reason. I wonder if people read it. I sure hope my parents didn’t because if expressing your emotions to the world is scary enough, imagine telling the same world how many people you had sex with within a year.

As you know, Diary, the year I’m referring to in my last article is 2011. You know that I experienced some heavy stuff that year. I wanted to go back and add some stuff, but that’s not my style. Once I’ve put something out there, I won’t take it back or put more stuff to complete it. That’s why I read my articles a few times before I publish them. If I’m insecure about the story or afraid it might be too spicey, I always let my husband read it for additional feedback.

The funny thing is that people think that by age 18, you must already have everything figured out. You’re not a kid anymore to society, but neuroscience can disagree. Listen, I’m not trying to make excuses for the stupid things people do in their youth. We will all continue to do silly things for the rest of our lives. I still go back to specific songs, to the tunes that soothed the teenage angst of the past. The same angst that I thought would be gone when I got into my 20s, but they’re still here. I sometimes think this “coming out of age” will never stop happening. I will always be the awkward girl in the corner with insufficient social skills to get through it, but lately, I’ve been giving myself some credit. Last week I stood before 150 professionals to provide a short work, so I should be proud of myself.

You know how I’ve felt these past months, weeks, days. I’m getting better; I’ve been canceling the noises by myself. Sure, I’ve gotten help; I know I’m not alone. I just don’t hear enough adults telling me what they feel, and I’m talking about what they think. You know the things you would only tell an intimate friend? That type of stuff. If I know you’re shitting me, I will still listen, but I won’t invest time or energy; I would just listen, and maybe give a slight nod. I guess the “nice girl” in me is deeply rooted, and it takes time to unlearn things that no longer serve a purpose.

I’m writing you this time in a better mood and hopeful for my coping strategies. Since last week I’ve been adding all the songs I can recollect that 19-year-old Jammita used to listen to in 2011. It was eighter that or you don’t want to know. I even remember the order I used to listen to a few songs; it’s bizarre. No wonder Max escapes Vecna the first time when Kate Bush comes on (any Stanger Things fans in the house?). Music cures it all. And those songs on my playlist weren’t just songs; a few were my remedy, friend, support, and strength. But listening to all those songs marked the year I finally emancipated because that is precisely what I did. I may see it as something stupid now, but it took courage to do the things I did that year, and no, I’m not talking about the people I have sex with.

By the end of 2011, after going through some weird Natalie Portman in Black Swan type of thing, ironically, the movie came out a year before; I stood up for myself, said no, told people how I felt, and risked everything for love. And you may say risking your “career” for love is the stupidest thing you can do. The most ridiculous thing is forcing a teenager to take a loan to do a study that they probably don’t even want to do in the first place. I hope I do not sound passive-aggressive because I realize something cheesy after listening to the playlist. Time may heal it all. Now, I see the experiences of 2011 as a part of my journey, as a part of who I am. There’s no turning back. If I could turn back time, I would not find a way. I would want to make the same mistakes, as painful as they may be. And no, I don’t want to experience them for the sake of character-building. Fuck that!

To finish this up, Diary, tell me why I picked Never been kissed as the best example. I could have easily picked the finger slip in Bring it On, Reese getting fingered by Mark on a rollercoaster. Something that I’ve always been curious about. I was too young to see American Beauty, but I don’t want to remember what went down into that movie (or I don’t want to mention a particular actor). And those are just a few of the inappropriate films that I used to watch. I’ve always been curious about sex, always. Maybe the reason I made the playlist wasn’t a coping strategy; perhaps I’m (sexually) emancipating (again). It might just be hormones; who knows what’s happening inside my body these days? I’m convinced that I will not be shamed for being sexual and will not hurt others in my journey of discovering myself more. Because that’s the thing, puberty end, but you will continue to be confused long after that. Life can be so disappointing sometimes, and I don’t think the “adults” prepare you enough for that. As a child, it may seem to you that adults know what they are doing, but they don’t. I’ve come to accept that and understand what’s left is to be grateful for what I have (yes, shocking because that might seem like something that I would never say) and to live each day, one day at a time.

Talk soon, bye.