shut down today, taking away the online copy of a decade or more of my scribbling.

I had my first diary when I was about fifteen, but the one I saved begins in 2005, when I was 17. It starts thus:

the darling darling best friend who made me want to write down my crappy little thoughst in here is to be thanked for all the pain and misery i may cause you all. 

I had my nightmares analysed last night by my dads friend who also told me i looked hot in my school uniform. He is 65.

I was not amused.

That diary has everything in it: the day I found out I had been accepted to university, the night I lost my virginity, the entries that say things like ‘I think I want to die. That worries me’. One of my fellow diarists is now among my closest friends, and there are close friends that I lost because of those diaries. All my thoughts, my late night worrying, the erratic spelling and entries partly in French to see if I could.

It ends in the days after getting my final exam results at undergraduate and being absolutely miserable about them. Everyone was very, very kind about it.

The final sentences (the eccentric punctuation maintained, dear lord I loathed the capital letter in private, it seems):
and the games of psychiatrist and curries and katie fran and swimming and nina have all been lovely. LOVELY. i am a lucky woman, and can survive.