I have, slowly and surely, been archiving all of my old diaryland entries. Realize, please, that I have had a blog since 2000. That’s more than ten years of blogging, and most of that was blogging through the last two years of college and into my early twenties — which means life upheaval in many ways, and the remnants of teenage angst, and indecision, and (did I mention this?) upheaval.

I haven’t gotten to read all of the entries — just copy and paste, old open-apple-c, open-apple-v, even though my lovely new mac doesn’t have open-apple anymore, just command — but I’ve perused them, and noticed words, and ideas, and names.

Delving into the you you once were is heady business. If I knew then what I know now ….

It’s also precious, though. In the more than 300 pages of blog entries (single-spaced, 12-point, aieee — and I still have two and a half more years to archive) I keep thinking about when I will let Elinor read them. Probably not until she’s in high school. I curse liberally, and the angst is painful at times. I’d also like to explain to her what was going on in my life at those times. Perhaps I’ll annotate what were often cryptic entries. Do I really want to do that?

But my emotional life, during those highly crazy times, is all there. Significant portions of my mind are there. And even if Elinor pooh-poohs them, as any self-respecting teenager should, I guess, I am still glad that I have a record of my life like that. It’s uneven, and it’s definitely over-written at times and cryptic and it tries to straddle that fuzzy line between private and public in a weird manner, but it is truly all the mes that I once was, and I am glad I have some record of that, spotty as that record might be.

I have GOT to stop staying awake so late. Pictures of Elinor tomorrow, I promise.