When Your Boyfriend Reads Your Diary

Would you be able to handle it?

Only briefly and on and off have I been used to sharing a bed with someone else, making room for them in my sheets and my life.

Because of that, I’ve been known to sleep in my queen sized bed with a lot of extra junk in the empty space.

There’s perpetually a pile of laundry and extra blankets and pillows shoved into the bottom corner of my bed; I sleep with my laptop, I sleep with my journal and pens and poems in my head that I can’t get out these days.

It’s never been a problem but for once.

I was seventeen, and had just given my high school boyfriend Ryan the first blowjob of his life (and the last he’d get from me).

I’d gone to the bathroom and came back to my room to find him laying in my bed with my journal in his hands.

He hadn’t opened it, but it didn’t matter.

He hadn’t opened it, but it didn’t make my heart pound any less, it didn’t make me any less enraged, because the thing is, I think that if I hadn’t walked back in when I did, he WOULD have opened it.

We all need to have our privacy, our secret space for our thoughts that shouldn’t be invaded by anyone else, and I felt invaded just seeing him touch my journal, let alone peruse its pages.

So, for years, I hid my journals away when I wasn’t writing in them.

I stashed them, paranoid, under my mattress where no one would read my words.

Then, of course, I started writing on the internet.

My ex, John, never gave a shit about what I wrote online, or anywhere else for that matter.

He knew writing was important to me, he’d say supportive things, like “I know you’ll publish a novel one day,” but he’d never take the time to read what I wanted to share with him.

There was a year I wrapped up my book of poetry, my most precious thing, for him to read for his birthday, and he gave it back months later without a word.

I couldn’t even make him care.

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