I’ve been procrastinating with this chapter. I’ve been spending an unnecessary amount of time reading and pretending to rewrite previous chapters. In reality, I was avoiding the emotional rollercoaster I knew I would be on once I touched this chapter. But once I started, it simply poured out of me.
It felt only fitting to share the entire chapter with everyone.
So whether you’re a subscriber, free or paid, or even a non-subscriber, here’s an entire chapter of little 19-year-old Ulla stuffing down emotions that were way too grown up for her.
The final bell of senior year echoed through the halls of Hankoniemen lukio, signaling the end of an era and the beginning of something I couldn't quite name. Freedom? Opportunity? Or just another set of chains, gilded and gleaming, but chains nonetheless?
As I packed my bag for the last time, the familiar weight of textbooks pressed against my spine. These books had been my constant companions, my shields, my escape. Now, they felt like unnecessary baggage – much like the accolades and expectations that clung to me like a second skin.
Valedictorian. Top of the class. Accepted into a prestigious university program. These were the necessities of success, or so I'd been told. Yet as I stood there, surrounded by the excited chatter of my peers, I couldn't shake the feeling that true necessity lay elsewhere – in safety, in peace, in a love that didn't leave bruises.
My fingers brushed against a dog-eared photo of Madonna tucked into my Finnish literature book. Her fierce gaze seemed to challenge me: Who's that girl? Indeed, who was I beneath the layers of achievements and carefully constructed smiles? The real me felt unnecessary in this world of expectations and prescribed paths.
"Hei, valedictorian!" Minna's voice cut through my musings. "Ready for the big speech?"
I plastered on a grin, the mask I'd perfected over the past two and a half years. "As ready as I'll ever be," I replied, my voice steadier than my heart.
Minna beamed, oblivious to the storm beneath my carefully constructed facade. "You're going to nail it! And that dress you described for graduation? I can't wait to see it!"
Ah, the dress. Another unnecessary necessity. The perfect replica of Madonna's "Who's That Girl" tour outfit that I'd spent months sewing in secret. A costume for the role I was expected to play – the golden girl of Hankoniemen lukio, ready to step into a bright future.
If only Minna knew how much I wished I could nail it – not just the speech, but this gnawing fear, this constant dread that had become my unwelcome companion. Instead, I nodded, slinging my heavy bag over my shoulder like armor against a world that didn't see the battles I was fighting.
As I walked down the hallway for the last time as a student, the weight of my achievements felt like lead in my stomach. Each accolade was a cruel joke, a cosmic reminder of how far the distance was between the person everyone thought I was and the reality of my existence.
I pushed open the heavy doors and stepped into the bright Finnish summer day. The schoolyard buzzed with activity – seniors hugging, crying, celebrating. Many were excitedly discussing their university plans, the luxury of tuition-free education stretching before them like an open road.
And there, leaning against his beat-up Opel Corsa, was Junior. My boyfriend. My tormentor. My most unnecessary necessity.
He caught my eye and crooked a finger, summoning me. And like a puppet on a string, I went to him, my feet moving of their own accord. This was my life now – a series of motions, carefully choreographed to avoid the next blow, the next cutting word.
"Took you long enough," he growled as I approached. "Thought you'd never get out of there."
I mumbled an apology, already bracing for his mood. This was supposed to be one of the happiest days of my life. Instead, as I slid into the passenger seat, I found myself wondering how many more hits I could take before I shattered completely.
The car roared to life, and as we pulled away from Hankoniemen lukio, I caught a glimpse of myself in the side mirror. The girl looking back was smiling, but her eyes told a different story. At nineteen, in this picturesque Finnish coastal town, I had already learned that life was full of unnecessary necessities – the masks we wear, the pain we endure, the love we cling to even when it hurts.
As the school disappeared in the rearview, I settled into the familiar feeling of fear, wondering what the night would bring. In two days, I'd walk across a stage, deliver a speech about bright futures and endless possibilities. Another performance, another unnecessary necessity in a life that had become a constant balancing act between what was expected and what was endured.
The shrill ring of our landline phone shattered the pre-dawn silence at 5:17 AM, mere hours before my high school graduation. I bolted from my basement bedroom, taking the stairs two at a time. In a house with four younger brothers, I had long ago become the first responder to crises, an unnecessary necessity thrust upon me by circumstance.
The police officer's voice on the other end was matter-of-fact as he detailed my 15-year-old brother's night of chaos. Stolen car from the Hanko wharves. Joyride through town. Police chase ending in Tammisaari. Arrest.
I absorbed the information with a practiced detachment, my voice steady as I assured the officer that my stepdad would be there soon. As I hung up, the weight of this new reality settled over me. Today was supposed to be about celebration and achievement. Instead, it was shaping up to be yet another exercise in pretending, in maintaining the illusion of normalcy that had become our family's specialty.
My mom and stepdad appeared in the hallway, their faces a mix of concern and resignation as I relayed the morning's events. Without much discussion, my stepdad prepared to leave for Tammisaari. The unspoken understanding hung heavily in the air – mom and I would handle things here, as always.
In my room, the Madonna-inspired white dress hung on the closet door, suddenly seeming like a costume for a play I no longer wanted to perform. Beside it, my Walkman sat on the dresser, loaded with a mix tape of Megadeth, Metallica, and Guns N' Roses – my real soundtrack, hidden beneath layers of expectations and pretense.
As I got ready, the aggressive riffs of "Symphony of Destruction" played from my CD player, a stark contrast to the delicate white ensemble I wore. I applied my makeup with practiced precision, creating the image of the perfect valedictorian, the golden girl of Hankoniemen lukio.
Upstairs, I could hear my mom moving about, her quiet efficiency a comfort amidst the chaos. She had been my partner in planning the graduation party, and now she would ensure everything was ready for the guests we'd be hosting later. Another unnecessary necessity: maintaining the facade of a perfect family celebration while one of us sat in a police station.
My brothers stirred, their excited voices a reminder of the day's supposed joy. Mom handled them with grace, explaining our stepdad's absence without revealing the true crisis, preserving their anticipation for the ceremony.
The rumble of Junior's car outside signaled another player entering this complex dance of unnecessary necessities. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for the performance ahead.
As we drove towards Hankoniemen lukio, my brothers crowded into my mom's car behind us, I closed my eyes, letting the first notes of Guns N' Roses' "Sweet Child O' Mine" wash over me through my hidden earbuds.
The valedictorian in a Madonna dress, with a heart full of metal and a soul drowning in family secrets – a walking contradiction heading towards a stage where I would speak of bright futures and limitless possibilities. My siblings would watch, unaware of the morning's drama, while our mom maintained the illusion of normalcy.
Another day, another performance, another set of unnecessary necessities to navigate. Little did I know, this day would mark not just the end of my high school career, but the beginning of a journey that would force me to confront the truth behind all these carefully constructed facades.
(On the day of my graduation with my youngest brother)
The auditorium of Hankoniemen lukio buzzed with an energy that belied its size. Our graduating class - a mere twenty students - represented the largest in the school's history, a fact that seemed both impressive and laughably small in the grand scheme of things. As we lined up, each of us crowned with the distinctive white cap that marked us as new graduates, I couldn't help but think that in a larger school, the absence of one student might go unnoticed. Here, my brother's empty spot in the audience felt glaringly obvious.
I smoothed down my white dress, feeling the weight of the speech in my heart. The words I had written about bright futures and limitless possibilities now felt hollow, a script for a play I wasn't sure I believed in anymore.
As I took my place on stage, my eyes scanned the audience. There was my mom, a picture of composure, flanked by my younger brothers who fidgeted in their seats. Junior sat a few rows back, his expression unreadable. The empty chair beside my mom seemed to shout my stepdad's absence.
When my name was called, I stepped up to the podium, the white cap perched atop my head feeling more like a crown of thorns than a symbol of achievement. The lights felt too bright, the silence too heavy. I began to speak, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside. I spoke of dreams, of perseverance, of the bonds we'd formed in this small coastal town. Each word felt like another unnecessary necessity, another performance in a long line of pretending.
After the ceremony, we gathered in the school yard for pictures. Twenty of us, our white caps gleaming in the summer sun, our laughter a bit too loud, our smiles a bit too wide. The weight of adulthood loomed over us, but for now, we clung to this last moment of childhood frivolity.
The after-party at our house was a blur of congratulations and polite conversations. I played the part of the gracious host alongside my mom, deflecting questions about my stepdad's absence with well-practiced ease. My brothers orbited the party, snagging snacks and reveling in the attention from relatives and family friends.
As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across our living room, the graduates began to peel away from their families. It was time for our own celebration, away from the watchful eyes of parents and teachers. The air was thick with anticipation and the heady rush of newfound freedom.
Hangon Casino loomed before us, a beacon of youthful promise on this midsummer night. The twenty of us tumbled in, our formal wear now rumpled, our inhibitions loosened by a potent mixture of emotion and alcohol. The drinks had started flowing early, a collective decision to blur the edges of this pivotal day.
The music pulsed, the bass thrumming through my body. In my inebriated state, even the pop hits seemed to carry the weight and energy of the metal tracks I usually craved. The room spun slightly, a dizzying carousel of faces and flashing lights.
I found myself in the middle of the dance floor, moving with an abandon I rarely allowed myself. My carefully constructed facades began to slip away, washed away by waves of vodka and the infectious energy of my classmates. For once, I wasn't thinking about arrested brothers or family responsibilities. In this moment, I was just another nineteen-year-old, drunk on alcohol and the promise of the future.
Junior materialized beside me, his movements clumsy but his grip firm as he pulled me close. The possessiveness in his touch registered dimly through the alcoholic haze, but I pushed the concern aside. Tonight was about forgetting, about losing myself in the chaos of celebration.
As the night wore on, our little group of twenty began to splinter. Some stumbled home, propping each other up and laughing too loudly at nothing. Others disappeared into dark corners, exploring new territories of adulthood with clumsy, eager hands.
I found myself on the beach, the cool Baltic air doing little to clear my head. My white dress was stained with spilled drinks and smudged with sand, my cap long since abandoned. The world tilted and swayed as I tried to focus on the horizon, where the first hints of dawn were starting to bleed into the night sky.
In my drunken state, emotions bubbled to the surface unchecked. Laughter turned to tears and back again as the events of the day - the early morning phone call, the tension of maintaining appearances, the exhilaration of graduation, and now this wild celebration - all swirled together in a confusing maelstrom.
As the sun rose over Hanko, painting the sky in brilliant strokes of pink and gold, I was struck by a moment of clarity that penetrated even my alcohol-soaked brain. This day - with all its unnecessary necessities and carefully maintained facades - was just the beginning. The real challenge lay ahead: navigating adulthood, confronting the truths I'd been avoiding, and somehow finding my authentic self amidst the chaos of expectations and responsibilities.
But that was a problem for tomorrow. For now, as I stumbled back towards the Casino where the party showed no signs of stopping, I let myself be swept up once more in the reckless abandon of the night. The future, with all its uncertainties and challenges, could wait. Tonight was for celebration, for pushing boundaries, for being gloriously, recklessly nineteen.
(Graduation day, with my mother)
The hangover from graduation night had barely subsided when I found myself packing my life into cardboard boxes. The chaos of the past few days - my brother's arrest, the graduation ceremony, the wild celebration at Hangon Casino - all seemed to blur together as I faced yet another unnecessary necessity: moving to Lohja with Junior.
This decision, made weeks ago in a moment that seemed both distant and immediate, now loomed before me with all its implications. Junior's job as a car detailer, working alongside his father at a dealership in Lohja, was the ostensible reason for our move. The dealership had a small apartment attached to it - a convenient solution for our housing needs, or so we thought.
As I folded my clothes and wrapped my few precious possessions, the reality of where we were going began to sink in. The apartment, as Junior had described it, was literally in the middle of the woods, close to a freeway. There would be nothing and nobody close by. The isolation that had seemed romantic in theory now felt ominous.
My mother hovered in the doorway of my basement room, her face a mixture of worry and resignation. "Are you sure about this?" she finally asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
I paused, my hands gripping the edges of a box filled with CDs - Megadeth, Metallica, and Guns N’ Roses. The music that had been my escape, my true voice when I couldn't speak my truth. Would they serve the same purpose in that isolated apartment, or would they become the soundtrack to a different kind of confinement?
"No," I admitted, surprising myself with my honesty. "But it feels necessary."
Necessary. The word hung between us, heavy with unspoken fears and hopes. Was this move truly necessary, or was it just another in a long line of actions taken to meet others' expectations, to maintain the facade of progress and normalcy?
The day of the move dawned bright and clear, a stark contrast to the turbulent emotions swirling within me. Junior arrived early, his beat-up Opel Corsa groaning under the weight of his own possessions. As we loaded my boxes into the car, I caught glimpses of my brothers watching from the windows, their faces a mixture of curiosity and confusion.
As the last box was loaded, I stood in the driveway, suddenly feeling very small and very young. The white graduation cap, perched haphazardly on top of a box in the backseat, seemed to mock me. Yesterday, it had been a symbol of achievement and new beginnings. Today, it felt like a relic from a childhood I was too hastily leaving behind.
My mom hugged me tightly, her embrace conveying all the words we couldn't say. "Call me," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "Anytime, for anything." The unspoken worry about the isolation of our new home hung in the air between us.
I watched Hanko recede in the rearview mirror as we pulled away from my childhood home. Ahead lay Lohja, unknown and intimidating in its newness and isolation. The thought of being so far from everything familiar, with only Junior and his work at the dealership as a connection to the outside world, sent a shiver down my spine.
Junior reached over and squeezed my hand, his touch both comforting and constraining. "Ready for our new life?" he asked, his voice filled with an excitement I couldn't quite match. His enthusiasm for the job, for the convenience of living so close to work, seemed to blind him to the potential pitfalls of our situation.
I forced a smile, another in a long line of necessary pretenses. "Ready as I'll ever be," I replied, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. My life was one “ready-as-I’ll-ever-be” after another.
As we drove towards Lohja and all it represented - independence, adulthood, a fresh start - I couldn't shake the feeling that I was driving towards a different kind of confinement. The woods that would surround our new home seemed to loom in my imagination, a green barrier separating me from the world.
The road stretched out before us, long and uncertain. I closed my eyes, letting the familiar opening riffs of a Metallica song wash over me from the car stereo. In that moment, caught between the life I was leaving and the one I was hurtling towards, I realized that the true necessity - the one I had been avoiding all along - was facing myself, my fears, and my own truth.
But that revelation would have to wait. For now, Lohja beckoned, another chapter in a life defined by unnecessary necessities. As we crossed the invisible boundary between my past and my future, I steeled myself for whatever lay ahead in that isolated apartment in the woods. I hoped that someday, I would find the courage to differentiate between what was truly necessary and what was merely expected, and find my way back to a world beyond the trees and the constant hum of the nearby freeway.
Little did I know what a steep price I would have to pay.
What a gift this is to glimpse into a part of your book and your life, honey. But the biggest gift is YOU!!
Great last line! So cool that we are on the same wavelength - sharing our respective traumas with the world!