February 1, 1985- Is there more to life than school and boys and clothes and music?
I’m flipping through a musty-smelling composition notebook found in the back of a closet. The handwriting looks familiar, but whoever wrote this is a real piece of work. They are melodramatic and kind of mean. They are obsessed with getting a boyfriend. They are full of big plans one moment and wallowing in despair the next.
The person who wrote those words is me.
October 18, 1986- Yesterday was my birthday. I’ve lived for so long, but I’m so young. I’m 13 now and what have I done?
I recently found my old diaries at my parents’ house. At first, I could barely look at them. My poems pondering the nature of love do not hold up well. Some of my most passionate celebrity crushes are problematic. Photos from that time show an awkwardly tall, round-cheeked girl, usually smiling, attempting the clothes and hair from YM magazine and Molly Ringwald movies with varying success. Underneath the surface, though, she is a tornado of hormones and raw feelings.
Gen X grew up valuing ironic detachment, and trying too hard was selling out. The girl who wrote these diaries has absolutely no chill, and I’m tempted to shove her back in the closet.
January 16, 1985- It must be depressing to grow up. I certainly wouldn’t want to be a 40 year old with a triple pierce, listening to the top 40, wearing the latest fads.
Sure, I’m embarrassed by her, but what would she think of me? I’m proud of being a loved partner, a mother, and a writer when circumstances allow. The girl in these pages, though–she was planning a big life. She was going to be a famous actress, or playwright, or poet, and she was going to bump into Footloose-era Kevin Bacon on the street where he would see her hidden depths and fall madly in love.
I actually do have three piercings in each ear, enjoy popular music, and pay attention to fashion styles. I’m not a famous writer. I’m not married to Kevin Bacon (yet!) My friends and I always say we are grateful there was no social media when we were teenagers, but I still have this past self as judgmental as any Instagram grid. The idea that my teenage self would think I am a loser is crushing.
April 14, 1989- My biggest secret, the one I have never told anyone, never will, is that I’ve never really kissed anyone.
The more I read, though, the more kinship I feel with young Jessica. The hormonal roller coaster of perimenopause is not so different from adolescent mood swings. She is fixated on romantic love, wondering if it will happen to her, and how, and whether she will know for sure when it does. I’m still fascinated by love, relationships, and what makes people connect. She wants to kiss half the eighth grade at Antilles School, and I write love stories so I can make imaginary people kiss.
March 12, 1989- I get pure flashes of the sweetest unadulterated misery and I wonder if that is living, the suffering to make me an artist.
Now that I’m middle-aged, I care less about being nice and polite and following the rules. My old self is angry and judgmental, and I love her for it. I want her delusions of grandeur. I want teenage Jessica’s conviction that something amazing is going to happen.
She’s who I want to be when I grow up.
Jessica Barnard has lived in Belmont since 2010 with her husband and two children. She is an administrator at Harvard University, a writer, and a Town Meeting member. Her website is jessicaclembarnard.com.
