I hid myself within myself, I only considered myself and quietly wrote down all my joys, sorrows, and contempt in my diary. This diary is of great value to me, because it has become a book of memoirs in many places, but on a good many pages I could certainly put ‘past and done with.’ I used to be furious with Mummy, and still am sometimes. It’s true that she doesn’t understand me, but I don’t understand her either. She did love me very much and she was tender, but as she landed in so many unpleasant situations through me, and was nervous and irritable because of other worries and difficulties, it is certainly understandable that she snapped at me.
I took it much too seriously, I was offended, and was rude and aggravating to Mummy, which, in turn, made her unhappy. So it was really a matter of unpleasantness and misery rebounding all the time. It wasn’t nice for either of us, but it is passing.
I just didn’t want to see all this, and pitied myself very much, but that, too, is understandable. Those violent outbursts on paper were only giving vent to anger which in a normal life could have been worked off by stamping my feet a couple of times in a locked room, or calling Mummy names behind her back.
The period when I caused Mummy to shed tears is over. I have grown wiser and Mummy’s nerves are not so much on edge. I usually keep my mouth shut if I get annoyed, and so does she, so we appear to get on much better together. I can’t really love Mummy in a dependent childlike way—I just don’t have that feeling.
I soothe my conscience now with the thought that it is better for hard words to be on paper than that Mummy should carry them in her heart.
Yours, Anne
Thursday, 6 January, 1944
Dear Kitty, I have two things to confess to you today, which will take a long time.
But I must tell someone and you are the best one to tell, as I know that, come what may, you always keep a secret.
The first is about Mummy. You know that I’ve grumbled a lot about Mummy, yet still tried to be nice to her again. Now it is suddenly clear to me what she lacks. Mummy herself has told us that she looked upon us more as her friends than her daughters. Now that is all very fine, but still, a friend can’t take a mother’s place. I need my mother as an example whom I can follow, I want to be able to respect her. I have a feeling that Margot thinks differently about these things and would never be able to understand what I’ve just told you. And Daddy avoids all arguments about Mummy.
I imagine a mother as a woman who, in the first place, shows great tact, especially towards her children when they reach our age, and who does not laugh at me if I cry about something—not pain, but other things— like ‘Mum’ does.
One thing, which perhaps may seem rather fatuous, I have never forgiven her. It was on a day that I had to go to the dentist. Mummy and Margot were going to come with me, and agreed that I should take my bicycle. When we had finished at the dentist and were outside again, Margot and Mummy told me that they were going into the town to look at something or buy something— I don’t remember exactly what. I wanted to go, too, but was not allowed to, as I had my bicycle with me. Tears of rage sprang from my eyes, and Mummy and Margot began laughing at me. Then I became so furious that I stuck my tongue out at them in the street just as an old woman happened to pass by, who looked very shocked!
I rode home on my bicycle, and I know I cried for a long time.
It is queer that the wound that Mummy made then still burns, when I think of how angry I was that afternoon.
The second is something that is very difficult to tell you, because it is about myself.
Yesterday I read an article about blushing by Sis Heyster. This article might have been addressed to me personally. Although I don’t blush very
easily, the other things in it certainly all fit me. She writes roughly something like this—that a girl in the years of puberty becomes quiet within and begins to think about the wonders that are happening to her body.
I experience that too, and that is why I get the feeling lately of being embarrassed about Margot, Mummy, and Daddy. Funnily enough, Margot, who is much more shy than I am, isn’t at all embarrassed.
I think what is happening to me is so wonderful, and not only what can be seen on my body, but all that is taking place inside. I never discuss myself or any of these things with anybody, that is why I have to talk to myself about them.
Each time I have a period—and that has only been three times—I have the feeling that in spite of all the pain, unpleasantness, and nastiness, I have a sweet secret, and that is why, although it is nothing but a nuisance to me in a way, I always long for the time that I shall feel that secret within me again.
Sis Heyster also writes that girls of this age don’t feel quite certain of themselves, and discover that they themselves are individuals with ideas, thoughts, and habits. After I came here, when I was just fourteen, I began to think about myself sooner than most girls, and to know that I am a ‘person.’ Sometimes, when I lie in bed at night, I have a terrible desire to feel my breasts and to listen to the quiet rhythmic beat of my heart.
I already had these kinds of feelings subconsciously before I came here, because I remember that once when I slept with a girl friend I had a strong desire to kiss her, and that I did do so. I could not help being terribly inquisitive over her body, for she had always kept it hidden from me. I asked her whether, as a proof of our friendship, we should feel one another’s breasts, but she refused. I go into ecstasies every time I see the naked figure of a woman, such as Venus, for example. It strikes me as so wonderful and exquisite that I have difficulty in stopping the tears rolling down my cheeks. If only I had a girl friend!
Yours, Anne
