As a lifelong hypochondriac, I have had a will since I was seven. Its conditions have changed over the years (I don't think my brother wants my Smurf collection any more), but one codicil has remained unchanged since 1989. In the event of my death from a horrific tropical disease or a burst appendix, my best friend Mort must go to my house and burn all my diaries.

This seems faintly ludicrous now. After all, they are published and there's a TV series based on them. Millions know that I have suffered from various mental health issues, that I rabidly masturbated with pillows and I once pretended I had a cardboard cock by using a toilet roll. I'm fine with all that, though. What I have to be careful of is the feelings of others.

That's why it makes perfect sense to me that Sheila Hancock has already burned her diaries to spare the feelings of her family. Private journals are dangerous and emotionally loaded. They have a bilious authenticity that is impossible to replicate in memory. No one would ever want to remember they thought things that vile. Feelings thrown down in a diary are raw, immediate and uncensored. There is no thought given to anyone but the writer. Blogs cannot compete – they are like a confession with a priest. You may be truthful with Father Blog about your sins, but you wouldn't necessarily let go completely. Diaries are places where you can say what the hell you feel at that moment. With that, temporary feelings gain a dangerous permanence. Madness, sadness and fury at others that probably dissipates the moment after it's scribbled down is committed to paper and built to last.

I'm going through my 90s diaries now for publication next year. There are never just my secrets to consider but the private thoughts and lives of others. Excruciating detail about me is one thing to reveal, but the teenagers I grew up with are now professionals with families. In the 90s, I wanted my diaries burned so no one would know how much I fancied my friend's boyfriend. Now I would like them burned because I don't want people to ever be reminded of how painful their life journey has been (some things are best forgotten). Neither do I want my legacy to be the hatred I felt for people who were often just trying to be helpful and loving. I don't want my mother to ever read everything I wrote when she had a tattoo of a bodybuilder done on her backside. Frankly I was over-reacting. She wasn't as bad as … I don't want to say. I was a cow. It's dreadful.

I know by sharing most of my diary that many people have experienced things that I thought were unique to me. People have been generous enough to tell me that their secrets and fears mirrored mine. We have found solidarity in our freakishness. Our darkest thoughts are often not as bad as we think they are. However, some feelings, rants and raves, secrets and lies are far best left to just ourselves. That's why next year, after I have removed all the photos of fit men in their prime, I'll be burning mine.