Vaults
My mind has better vaults. Better stores of memory which I can only access by punching the pin code and deciding to relive them. I used to say emotional bottles are made of glass, and overfull they will shatter. They have become vaults. If over-pressured, I need only to ensure that I am under no observation, and crack them open to experience a psychosis release of steam from their chambers.
In the day-to-day, the wandering of my thoughts through the halls of my psyche need not be bothered by any portion of my past which I do not wish to recall. The prodding of any party would need to be met with permission to my vault-tender, to the end that my own mother has asked me about specific portions of my past, and I have been unable to recall them, because the vault guardian said, 'no,' at the time.
Because of this, have I become a stronger, more healthy, robust, interesting, contributing member of society? No.
However, in response to the prompt, my ability to suppress my own being has indeed strengthened, and continues to be fortified, because my past has not yet killed me.