The Girl I Locked Away
A few weeks ago, I read two of my many childhood diaries. I thought it would be interesting to reconnect with my younger self and get to know her a little better. As we grow older, memories fade and change, and we’re left with only a few fragments and feelings. While I was reading, a few things stood out. I often called myself "crazy" or "pleasantly disturbed," and I wonder if that was a phrase we used a lot as teenagers. Another thing I noticed was that I wrote a lot about the peers and friends around me, trying to figure out who they were and what made them tick. Not to psychoanalyze them, but to genuinely understand them—and how I felt about that. Thirdly, there was a lot of love for my friends, a love that was unconditional. And lastly, a lot of it didn’t make any sense to my older self at all. That’s mostly because I apparently lost my train of thought back then even more often than I do now.
Reading my diaries, it appears that I was either mostly happy or extremely angry—at the world, at my parents. Typical teenage stuff. But then I noticed big gaps between entries. The entries following such gaps often began with something like "I feel like crap," hinting that something had happened—but I never wrote it down. I didn’t elaborate, just quickly glazed over it and moved on to lighter topics. I found myself especially interested in those missing periods and felt a bit disappointed that I hadn’t documented what I was truly going through at the time.
Some memories, though, don’t need to be written down to remain vivid. They linger in the body, in the nervous system, surfacing when you least expect them. And one such chapter of my life has stayed with me for years.
Because I do remember being under a lot of pressure. School wasn’t going well, and I was training hard, working toward a future in music. I had a boyfriend during that time who was significantly older—he was 21, while I was still a minor—which caused a lot of friction with my parents.
I remember feeling afraid of him in the end. Afraid of him and his past, which might somehow come back to hurt him—or me. I remember he once made me go upstairs to shelter me from his "friends," then went out with them and locked the door, completely forgetting I was there. I remember him being visibly scared after thinking he’d seen an old associate. I remember him being "off" because he’d used drugs the day before and was still hungover from cocaine or XTC.
He was highly possessive—if another man so much as looked at me, smiled, or even talked to me, he would get upset. I remember being so exhausted from school and training that I’d collapse on his bed, just wanting to rest and be held. But he wanted more, and I couldn’t say no, so I just let it happen. Years later, I told my best friend, and she said: "That’s rape." I denied it.
In my diaries, I could only find entries from the beginning of our relationship and shortly after it ended. In them, I described him as a troubled young man who had lost his father at a formative age. He had to support himself when most of us were still worrying about trivial things. He paid for his studies and his own apartment. I wrote that he was so considerate of me. That I loved him because he really saw me and listened to me.
In the end, I wrote that I didn’t break up with him because I was scared or no longer loved him, but because I couldn’t handle the pressure anymore. He said, "I thought you were more mature," and I wrote: maybe he’s right.
Was I lying to myself even back then, or are my memories—and my feelings about that time—simply unreliable? Or is it a bit of both? I had hoped to find some clarity by reading my old diary, but instead, I found sadness. I was so scared. For months, I checked the streets anxiously, looking for his car or catching a glimpse of him whenever I had to pass through his neighborhood. There must be some truth in the memories and feelings I carry from that time.
And does it even matter if the memories are accurate? The feelings are real. I feel such deep sadness for my younger self—surrounded by friends, yet so incredibly alone. Back then, there was no one I could truly open up to. No time or space to process what was happening. And so, yet another coping mechanism took root: smile, lock everything away, and just push through.
Reflecting on all of this, I see how my past still echoes into my present. The silence I kept, the fears I buried, the strength I forced myself to wear—all of it shaped me. And perhaps by unearthing it now, piece by piece, I can finally begin to let it go.
Still, I find myself hesitating. Part of me wants to process this period, lay it all out in the open and understand how it shaped me. Part of me wants to keep it sealed in the lockbox where I left it, untouched. And another part of me wonders—do I even need to process it? I am fine now. But writing about this time has stirred up the sadness, the loneliness. Feelings I thought I had left behind.
Maybe that’s the strange thing about healing. It’s not always about resolution. Sometimes, it’s about sitting with the story, acknowledging it, and gently choosing how much space it gets to take up in your life today.
