Why I faked my own diary entries.

Years ago I felt and still feel as if writing something down with a pen and paper makes things feel more apparent and more real in my mind. 

Now, I currently have a little green book filled with over-exaggerated parts of my life to which I now know are mostly untrue. The diary entries in this book are filled with me addressing someone I made up in my head. I would act as if I was telling someone about my day, I would tell them about my day and even apologise if I thought my writing was boring. Kind of like an imaginary friend.
I asked myself why there was so little truth in my words, I had a hard time rewinding my mind to when I was 15, I had a difficult time understanding the satisfaction I felt as I wrote lies upon lies. I can although, remember writing these things so consistently to the point where at the time they became true in my head. 
I still could not fathom why I would lie to myself like this. 

I then began to notice a pattern in my words, these things I exaggerated and lied about were matters I wished for myself. I felt too weak to go out and grasp the things I desired. Instead of coming to terms with this fact, I decided to convince myself that I did. This is my earliest memory of lying to myself. I planted fake thoughts in my head. 

I wrote on these pages that I went for a nice long walk around my suburb when I really just sat in bed watching baking videos. 
I wrote on these pages that I had the courage to text that person who of which I had been meaning to text for a while when I really just stared at my phone drowning in anxiety over the send button for hours that morning.
I wrote on these pages that I was over my first love and that I had risen from it when I was so far from that truth.

I wanted to convince myself that my life was more interesting, I wanted to convince myself that I was better than I really was and that I was okay when I wasn’t.

I wonder if my 15-year-old self thought about my present self reading these entries and wondering why I lied so much. 
I wish I could give my 15-year-old self a hug.