Written

Some of you probably think I'm writing this for that one 'Dear Diary' competition, and that's partly true. I've been wanting to write this sort of thing for a long time, but I never got to it. There was never a right time, and I began to forget about it. It was this competition that gave me the push I needed to finally begin this diary. I created a new account apart from my original because this is all true. Enjoy!

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1. 6/3/15

I would say that I live an average thirteen year old’s life. That’s me, though. Others might say, for reasons I won’t take time to explain now, that my life is above average, while some would see it to be below average. I see that it evens out as an average life, yet full of both positive and negative extremes.

My name is Kristen, and as I’ve said, I’m thirteen, almost fourteen. I don’t know if I could tell you what my biggest wish is. Sometimes I wish most for a friend who I could trust with my life and secrets, and who would help me deal with all the problems I will have. Other times, I imagine my mom adopting a little four or five year old boy, one who could be my little brother and depend on and look up to me. That would be something. There are times I find myself wanting a plate of cake and brownies and grapes and strawberries and all sorts of food just to magically appear before me.

But I believe my biggest wish is to be somebody, the kind of somebody who would be the main character of a story, the hero or heroine that went through struggles, felt and seen the deepest love, the brightest joy, the darkest pain, the angriest fury. The somebody who would reject the motions of life, refuse to ignore what others wouldn’t think to blink an eye at, to change what could not be changed by the ordinary, uncaring and naive commoner. Is that too much to ask for?

But of corse! After all, is that not why we love stories and books and movies and fairytales? We wish to feel, we are obsessed with the otherworldly and fascinated-although some perhaps are frightened-by the unknown. I know few who would choose a quiet life that would hardly touch the world-which is ironic that I wouldn't choose this life since, while in love the the notion of adventure, my heart also belongs to a country life on a farm-over the life that could change it all. I’d embrace the pain, the hurt, the anger, the hate without complaints, because with them come the love, the grace, the joy, the satisfaction. But such a dream in knights in shining armor and princess locked in towers are too far out of reach.

It is too much to ask.

But, as grand as such thoughts will seem, my life is surely not all that bland. I can’t see it now, but perhaps some decades from now, I can look back at what I have written, at what I live to be for now. Perhaps I am in a story, a tale to tell of myself. I do not see it in myself. But someday, perhaps.

Such is a reason for my writing here, now. But not the only reason. I think back to my younger years, and I see how people saw me, how I now see children of such a young age to be. Young, silly, without much thought. I was not so, and it takes keeping events of those years of my life in mind to help remember that this younger generation is no different that I was. I expect that in five or so years, I will see myself as the same mindless imp I sometimes take myself to have been when I was the meer ages of six or seven. I want myself to remember that, although I may be young, my mind is still strong and full of, more or less, mature thoughts.

There is one more reason I’ve decided to do this: I’m not always the happiest person. I’m going to need a way to show myself when I am most depressed that life isn’t all that bad, to remind myself that I’ve had my bad days, yes, but there  have been plenty of good days as well. A written down reccord will preserve those memories for whenever I need access to them, even when my mind will not share them with me.

I’m not into all that ‘dear diary’ stuff, but I will always record the date. Anyways, I suppose I’ll start by telling a bit of my life story.

Think of your mother. Many people claim to have no mother, but we all have at least one. I do not. I have three. My biological mother-who I have never met, nor do I know her name-is not the same as the woman who gave birth to me-who we have kept in touch with and whose name is Candy, no kidding. Also, I am technically adopted. So three mothers: my biological mother, my birth mother and the woman I now live with and call mom. The story of my birth is long and one for another time.

I was born in Little Rock, Arkansas, where Candy was living at the time. Soon after I was born, we came back up to Iowa. I lived there until kindergarten, when we moved to Missouri where my mom owned a motel and worked at 24/7. It was quite an experience, growing up in a motel that you own. My favorite memory was checking people in and how they reacted to a young girl seemingly in charge.

I had just finished fourth grade when we moved back to Iowa. We had hired a manager to take care of the motel so that we could be closer to family. Towards the end of my fifth grade school year, my mom discovered that the manager had been stealing from us. When the school year was over, we returned to our motel in Missouri. I was in the middle of my sixth grade year when we finally sold the motel. Not wanting me and my brother to have to switch schools in the middle of the year, my mom agreed to move in with some friends of ours who lived on a farm until we finished the school year. When it ended, we came back to Iowa. All these years, we had kept the same house that I am living in today. I am now in eighth grade and  am in my last week of school until the summer break.

I have some friends at school: Hannah, Maddie and another Maddie are all in my grade and homeroom. We tend to cluster together then. There a few others, like Kenzie and Wynter, but those are about all of my main friends, the friends I associate with the most, even though I’m not terribly involved with them outside of school. There’s one other, yet another Maddie, but she’s in sixth grade and more like a little sister to me and I only see her on the bus.

My hair is always a  mess, I don’t have a phone, my grades would give most parents a heart attack, I’m fresh out of pets, I don’t have a boyfriend and many people, including myself, would say I’m overweight. My life kinda sucks. But I guess that’s living. At least I’m not really picked on too much, I blend into the background, except on the bus. Last Thursday, for instance, some people behind Maddie and I kept throwing things at us. Fifteen to twenty things were thrown at us, from hershey kiss wrappers to nail glue-some of which was thrown onto Maddie’s book and ruined a page. But besides the bus, I tend to get ignored.

I usually watch a ton of movies and read lots of books-it’s like if I can’t be that somebody I mentioned earlier, I can still experience that sort of life-well, many lives-through stories. If you were bored and asked me for a book recommendation, I’d give you a long list and a detailed description of each novel and why I loved it and probably some spoilers. Most of the people I know would say I’m obsessed with reading (when I was in fifth grade, I read The Hunger Games in one day, I read the Twilight series in about 2-3 days per book and I have recently read a five hundred page book in one day). But it’s more of the somebody sensation I’m obsessed with. I’m still hoping that someday, I’ll be able to read what I’ve written today and understand that I am that somebody, that I did live that life. I pray that it is not to much to ask.

So that’s a bit on my life for now. I don’t have much else to write about today. In a day or two, maybe three, I’ll write again, add more to my story. For now I just have to finish up the last few days of school. But I’ll write again soon, and maybe then I’ll be able to figure out a way to finish an entry without me feeling and it sounding so awkward.

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