Credit: Marta Pawlik Journaling has been there for me throughout my entire adult life. But you may be surprised to learn how it was a haven for me even since age 8.
At that time, we were living in Columbus, Ohio (we moved every few years) and had a tenant living in the basement. He didn't have the whole basement, just the bedroom. My mom and I were down there, they were discussing adult things. He was Chinese and they chatted. Then, somehow I found myself alone with him in his bedroom. I guess my mom didn't think it was a big deal.
Then suddenly, out of nowhere, he started trying to stomp on my feet and laughing like it was a hilarious game! I was terrified and furious. “How do you like that? Or that??” It was terrifying as I was a little girl stuck in a room with a grown male 'stranger.’
You can guess what I did after. Nothing. Didn't tell anyone, not even my parents. I only confided at night by myself to my diary. I still remember that diary entry. In my green-hearts-key-locked diary (a key which I would lose sometimes and then figured out I could simply pry it open with a pen). All my anger and fury (from my little body!) all came out through the pen onto that page. 'I hate him!!!!' I wrote 20 times with as many exclamation points.
It saddens me now to think of that I didn’t feel I had someone to turn to. But I'm grateful I had some place. A safe place, just for me.
At that time, we were living in Columbus, Ohio (we moved every few years) and had a tenant living in the basement. He didn't have the whole basement, just the bedroom. My mom and I were down there, they were discussing adult things. He was Chinese and they chatted. Then, somehow I found myself alone with him in his bedroom. I guess my mom didn't think it was a big deal.
Then suddenly, out of nowhere, he started trying to stomp on my feet and laughing like it was a hilarious game! I was terrified and furious. “How do you like that? Or that??” It was terrifying as I was a little girl stuck in a room with a grown male 'stranger.’
You can guess what I did after. Nothing. Didn't tell anyone, not even my parents. I only confided at night by myself to my diary. I still remember that diary entry. In my green-hearts-key-locked diary (a key which I would lose sometimes and then figured out I could simply pry it open with a pen). All my anger and fury (from my little body!) all came out through the pen onto that page. 'I hate him!!!!' I wrote 20 times with as many exclamation points.
It saddens me now to think of that I didn’t feel I had someone to turn to. But I'm grateful I had some place. A safe place, just for me.
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