by Rebecca Carvalho

Created on: November 30, 2009

I have written 22 journals and now I am writing the 23rd. When I was twelve years old I started this trend among my cousins, and I remember how my aunt would question us, trying to understand why we wanted to hide our thoughts on such vulnerable tool. My cousins soon stopped writing after a series of diary-stealing. I, on the other hand, continued until today, and shall continue writing until the day I die. What makes me different compared to my cousins is that I did not want to hide my thoughts, though private they were. I want to show them to my descendants and live through my journals. These diaries will keep me alive even after my death.

Autobiographies are, in my opinion, like journals. Only that autobiographies are written without the fear of having them read by strangers. In this case my journals portray the sale value. I guess I have been writing my autobiography since I was a kid, then and every chapter turned out to be a surprise. Many more chapters, I hope, are still going to be written.

Now that I find myself in need to pick a story from so many experiences I had lived, I feel the necessity to go back in time to one of those moments that certainly helped me learn the importance of fighting to accomplish my goals. This story is not an unique moment, though it could even be your story, too. This story is where I find myself linked to so many people striving to make their dreams come true. In many ways we are all brothers and sisters, and that is why I do not fear exposing my thoughts to you:

I do not know where to begin, though. You should probably know that my mother was unemployed since I was sixteen years old. Though, maybe, you should also know that my mother was a single-parent since I was a baby, and my father I do not know in person. He never helped us with anything. Do not get me wrong, though: there are no resented feelings, and I must confess I have learned and got used to not having a father. I am the daughter of my mother; the granddaughter of my grandparents; the niece of my uncles and aunts; the cousin of my cousins; and the friend of my friends; and that is all.

When my grandparents were healthy and alive they helped raise me. They, in many ways, helped shape who I am today and I am very thankful that they accepted my mother back into their house after such turbulent period that took place when my mother got married to a man, although intelligent and kind-hearted, they did not approve of. They accepted her back without I've told you

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