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September 16, 2017
Dear diary,
I was never a brave girl. When I was six, I fell down the stairs of my school and hurt my head. There were no serious injuries but I still ran home crying and screamed and screamed for my father until he enclosed me in his arms, whispering soothing words all the while. When I was eleven, I fell while trying to skate. With scratched elbows, bleeding knees, shaking body and barely contained sobs, I reached home. Swallowed my tears, tried to put on a brave facade and told my father in a high pitched, wobbly voice that I was okay, I was okay, I was okay. I think those words for me just as much as they were for my father who was staring at me with something like sympathy in his eyes. Eyes that could see through me. Eyes that made me feel fragile, breakable, weak when all I wanted was for him to say, "Yes, my baby girl. It's all okay. Look how brave you've become!".
