No place is sacred for a diary. It may be more of a risk to scream into the internet, where anyone could access it, but it feels much safer than keeping the physical book. People around me have some type of interest in myself as a person. Family, friends, significant other, coworkers. People who could all have a motive to read a private journal entry. I wouldn't blame them; curiosity of all things related to oneself is intrusive. But I cannot help the way I think and act; I've been tryings since I can remember to behave more normally, so that I could be liked and left alone from abuse. I don't wish to relive my life before I realized how to act like this. Motivation for prying could be as small as seeing my face every week. It's easier on the internet, where I am just one of a billion; a sample of text you glaze over as you scroll. Ello seems a good outlet. None of the socially-driven networks have worked, too many people from the physical world will find you. Either I catch on early enough to delete my posts or prying questions come creeping in. Sometimes even the most innocent things are unacceptable in the physical world. Even so, I'm uncomfortable sharing everything yet. I know this is an art network. I do have art cluttering my drawers, folders, my brain. I'm scared to share it. I'm scared to share my feelings. It feels safer for my feelings to come out onto this site before my art. It's terrible enough having people know that my brain doesn't function correctly; I don't want further embarrassment of my creations not living up. I need an emotional outlet in my hierarchy of needs before I share my representatives. Maybe if someone could understand where I'm coming from they'll have the context to my creations I treasure but can't share. My art has no context without my thoughts and experiences. If I cannot share my thoughts, I cannot share my embroidery, my collages, my pantings, my miniatures. For example, the emaciated, aging beast eating its' own children means nothing but edginess without it. Played out, lame, impersonal. Unless; you're aware my mother has anorexia nervosa, and was abusive to my brothers and I. Her children's thyroid issues and birth defects from her smoking and drinking while pregnant leading to weight issues. The extreme diets we were on until we grew larger than her. My brother crying and breaking open a candle to eat the peppermint decorations. Never eating and exercising over forty hours a week after school. The constant fear of her wrath and the gnawing in our stomachs. Thinking we're going to die. It's not meant to be edgy; my mother destroyed and ate our bodies because of her sickness. I do not want to be misinterpreted. It's enough unintentional symbolism for the few who glance upon this to know I can only express myself with the tiniest of stitches and strokes. I am afraid. I am a being driven by fear. I wish to correct this. I will type, and I will share. What I can. This will be an outlet and a diary to help express myself and build my confidence in what I share. I hope that it helps.