Talking about keeping a diary

It was not until the last night of 20 18 that I got into the habit of keeping a diary. I told myself that in the new year, I must keep a diary every day and live actively. To show my determination, at ten o'clock that night, I went jogging (faster than walking) for forty minutes, when I was eight months pregnant.

I didn't let myself down. 20 19 I really keep a diary every day, which is a running account. I remember it in detail from getting up in the morning to going to bed at night.

After writing a complete diary for a year, I found that the previous days were all wasted, leaving nothing behind.

Actually, I wanted to keep a diary when I was very young. I remember when I was in the second grade of primary school, I went to town and bought a notebook myself. I was going to keep a diary like others, but I don't know why I ended up like this.

I only remember writing a sentence in the diary of primary school: my mother is like dirt, I am like a small flower, and flowers will die without dirt ... I wrote this sentence because my mother didn't know what disease she got in the third grade of primary school, and it was said that it was difficult to treat, and it was not good to go to the city several times. At that time, I was particularly scared when I was young. I cried silently. What should I do when my mother dies?

I regret why I don't usually help my mother more. If I can get my mother's health, I will fetch water, cook, wash clothes and do farm work every day, and I won't be angry with my mother. ...

Later, my mother's illness didn't know how to get better, but it was all right anyway.

Now the generation gap between my mother and me is getting deeper and deeper. She doesn't understand me, and neither do I. Every time I call back and forth, I just say a few words: Have you eaten? Are you okay? Are the children okay? ...

In junior high school, I began to want to keep a diary again. I wrote about two notebooks off and on, and I didn't finish each one.

Once, I found my stepfather reading my diary, so I took it and burned it all. In my diary, I wrote that I hated him, but I didn't say his name. I just used a figure or just an empty box to represent this person in case someone found me. But he still knew I was writing about him, and he began to threaten me to kick me out of the house again.

In high school, I wrote another diary. I didn't bring it home to school this time. I have also written a book or two off and on. Later, I dropped out of school and went to work in Guangdong. I didn't bring my textbook and quilt, including my diary, and put it in the dormitory for one of my classmates to keep, thinking of coming back to get it when I dropped out of school.

After the college entrance examination, I went back to school to attend a classmate's party and found that all my things were disposed of. My quilt and other useful things were taken away by other students. Maybe I didn't explain it clearly to my classmates and neglected it. It's also my fault that I trust others too much. The diary was therefore not preserved.

Later, I went to the north, got married and had children, and wrote some diaries bit by bit, but they were all poor and didn't take it seriously. Plus, I don't have a stable residence, so I don't know where those scattered diaries are scattered.

In retrospect, in fact, the first time I consciously wrote about my feelings should be in the first grade, when my mother took me and my stepfather to remarry. I wrote on a rough piece of paper: Dad, I will come back to you when I grow up ... I only remember this sentence now, but I can't remember anything else. After I finished writing, I forgot to put it on the table, and then I played with my friends.

My mother can't read If she can read, she will definitely put it away or even throw it away. Unfortunately, this tissue was seen by my stepfather.

In the evening, I had a good time at my little friend's house. My mother came to me with my stepfather in tears, as well as my grandparents. My family questioned me, like a moral judgment, saying that they would give me food and drink, but they didn't remember their kindness. They also thought of my own father, who was also a baiwenhang when he was older. ...

Said that since I miss my real father so much, then send me back ... I was scared to death and felt that I had made a big disaster! Even the thought of suicide makes them regret it!

My mother did not divorce my father. He thought my dad was poor. One night my dad hit him, so he sneaked out with me and remarried to this family after being introduced by relatives. I haven't seen my real father for more than 20 years, and I don't want to see him now.