She's right again

Life Moral: Mother is always right

You'd think after the billion times she has been right in the past, I would just listen. But no.
Here is the situation:
I am packing my belongs before my wedding. Deciding what to keep, give away, and throw away. The classic organizing system I've known all my life. We've done this once a year for my entire life. Sorting barbies, littlest pet shops, melanie's mall, light up jeans, Hanson posters... The list goes on. Keep, Give Away, Throw Away. Sounds simple right? Not right!
Ok so Mom & I are sorting. But this time there is a fourth category: "Leave at my parent's house" Hmmm
Clothes: keep. Plastic 4'' high heels: throw away. Life-time chronicling diaries and journals...
I am so torn. My whole childhood, prayer journals, dating years, hygiene school struggles are all locked in those journals. Giant chunks of my life that I'll forget someday if I don't remind myself. I am holding them in my hands riffling through the numerous books but riffling carefully because Mom is still in the room. No living creature has seen a page of these except myself.
What am I to do?
Bring them with me into my marriage home? Honestly, most of those memories I don't want to remember because I am much more prolific in times of hurricane- strifes than times of rainbow sunshines . And also I don't really want to remember all the things I got mad at Matt about while we were dating (Substantially founded or not. mostly not)
But throwing them away. My souls scrunches up a little at the thought. Those journals are kind of like a horcrux for me. A younger, sillier self is pressed upon the pages like an ancient flower.
So I say to mom "Hmm what to do with these journals.. I don't really want to bring them all into my married house."
"Oh you'll want those someday. You can just leave them here and I'll put them in your box"
** clarification time** "My box" is a hodge podge of childhood memorabilia. Honor roll certificates. Awana awards ( not as many as are in Harrison's box :( , poems, doodles, my first novel : How to tell if a boy likes you. Thrilling stuff.
Reader, to you this may sound like the perfect spot for my journals. Where else would they belong except by my innumerable cat drawings. Aha but you are wrong. There is one critical flaw of the "box system". They are open for public use. Public use. As in anyone in the family can riffle through whomever's box at whatever time. My lungs constrict just writing that down. My soul-horcux-journals in my siblings hands. (Brittany, I can see your fingers itching for them as I type this) . Let me reiterate no living creature has seen a page of these journals. No one. EVER. I think poorly veiled threats are on the cover of several of my journals promising a painful and lengthy death by torturing if anyone else where to even touch the cover.
This is where my siblings and I greatly differ.
Brittany: She must share her feelings or she will actually explode. For real. She tries sometimes to keep secrets and keep her feelings to herself but she can't. Not that that's a bad thing. It's actually much better than the alternative: Me
Harrison: He must also share his thoughts and feelings but mostly because he's so clever and awesome. (Britt & I have always known you were the favorite. You were our favorite too) You couldn't keep them to yourself even when Stephen King expressly forbids you to share your information, you can't help yourself. Again not that it's a bad thing. Not that Stephen King is always right.
Me: My thoughts and feeling and dreams and wishes are locked in a box, inside a chest, inside the cupboard under my left fourth rib. Don't try to find it. But unfortunately it is a box with boundaries and limitations. It is not the bottomless bag Hermoine uses. So after a while of stuffing everything down the poor box can't hold anymore and it explodes into yelling, crying feelings at whoever is nearest the volcano. I've tried to be better. But I am a natural secret keeper. No can guard my dreams and hopes so well as I.
So back to the situation. Bring them to my married home, Leave them for anyone to read, Dump them in the trash.
Keep, Share, Throw Away.
I did the only reasonable thing. I threw them away.
Inside a box. Inside a trash bag. Inside the outside trash.
Because someone might try to find them. Yes I've seen a specialist.

But now... surprise surprise guess who was right?
Mom.

I wish I had them and I can never get them back. Oh well. Lesson learned. All the angsty-ooey-gooey drama probably wouldn't even be palatable now.