When they let me out I cried tears of relief; wracking tears, too many for a grown woman, despite the circumstances. Joy and disbelief came into it. It was all highly surreal. But it was overwhelmingly positive despite all the hollering and the lights, the screaming, the cameras in hands thrust upwards like a fascist rally, recording the uncontrollable mix of emotions fighting over my face. My walking didn’t win me many catwalk call-backs either. Time was distended and misshapen, that walk took hours, and I threw my legs diagonally in front of each other, ungracefully like a newborn fawn. And of course I was so thin then I probably didn’t have the energy to walk elegantly. It was comforting to return to a normal weight when my ordeal was over.

I don’t recall the interviews afterwards in any great detail. My brain and lips took care of the talking while I tried to compose myself facially. I do remember that nobody—the plastic-set interviewers, the bloated cameramen, the static sound-men, the straining gawpers—none of them had a fucking tissue. I scanned them, pleading for assistance with the swell of liquid, and they looked right through me, or robotically trained their devices on me, while my girlish voice said god-knows-what about my torment. That I was so happy to have been released, I should imagine. That I bore no ill-will towards them. That it was an experience that I wouldn’t wish on anybody, that would change me forever. They don’t tell you that when your 15 minutes arrives, you’re too worried about your mascara being plastered down your face and snot running from your nose to take any notice of it. I guess I worried too much about such details. I looked fine, I have the video evidence. My lipstick looked glossy and even. My eyes sparkled with every flash—the crying actually did some good. So many eyes parsing every detail of me—after isolation it was disorienting, sickening. I imagined giant spiders hungrily watching me.

It was twelve years ago now, and I was only 28. More than anything, what I take away from it is a resolution to not get involved. I’m not that girl anymore. I don’t seek or want attention, and I don’t think I can change the world. I’ll be recognised maybe once a year, and that’s enough to dredge up the memories, the indignities, invoke that past version of me. If I think anybody is looking at me with recognition I run; last week I ran straight into the road and there was a booming crash I never turned my head or stopped for. I ran home and retched in the hallway. I would love to forget, would like it if it had never happened. The people that think they know me when they see me—well they don’t. They know some crystallised image of a 28-year old victim. I don’t receive much sympathy because they say I put myself in that position. I didn’t shy away from it, despite my parents and friends warning me that my actions would have consequences that I was too young and naïve to see. At the time it made sense to me like nothing else. There had been a plea and I was the person to answer it.

My parents have been incredibly supportive ever since, and I live with them here now, by this beautiful wood, this wood that for me is freedom and solitude whenever I want it. When I was in there I wondered if they would possibly take me back—I could feel myself changing. Would they know me? Would they live with the media attention?

My time inside was two things: a cramped, dark, squalid room where I was interviewed; and a cot bed, one of a few in a row, sleeping next to strangers. And while the others didn’t remain strangers for long, I felt like I never really knew who they were. They had their own rituals, agendas, masks. Like me they did as they were told and acted how they thought they should. We all wanted to be the favorite. Perhaps we thought we would get more privileges, or maybe it was all just part of the game, the only game we had to play in there. One-upmanship and creating drama, making little clusters of friends to surround yourself with, ostracising others so that it wouldn’t be you on the end of the rough treatment, the punishments and forfeits.

When I got out, my doctor referred me to a psychologist, who told me I was suffering from a form of PTSD. I wouldn’t leave the house. This went on for almost a year. She said that being in an environment like that—not able to leave, that small and confined space, and not knowing what was happening in the outside world—it would be abnormal if that hadn’t had a detrimental effect on my psychology. We did a lot of CBT for my fear of going outside, and also to help me get over the sexual degradation I experienced. I remember she asked me, with genuine curiosity, what it was like to be trapped in there, and watched around the clock. She helped me professionally, but personally she was a gawper like everybody else. Rubbernecking at a broken guardrail.

I answered her like I do anyone that asks now—that it had seemed like such a wonderful idea at the time, but I hadn’t thought about the implications. If I could go back, I would never have gone anywhere near there. All I want is a private life. I’m still hoping to have a family. Of course I need to meet the right man, preferably one that was out of the country in 1999.

If I had my way I would ban all reality-TV and destroy that Diary Room, that pool, that whole house.

Simon Pinkerton is a writer living in London and formerly of Minneapolis.
He writes short-stories and humor and is a contributor at McSweeney's,
Maudlin House and Squawk Back amongst others. All other details concerning
him are unimportant at this time. Please find him @simonpinkerton on
Twitter and read his blog at www.simonpinkerton.tumblr.com