Can you remember how old you were when you started putting things in the box?
I was nine. My parents divorced and I put the uncomfortable feelings of rejection and fear and insecurity in the box. I held on to the shame, though. It’s too bad you can’t control which ones you stuff and which ones you allow to permeate through your entire sense of self.
And no, I had no words, at the age of nine,to describe what I just wrote. I had no idea the box existed. Or the emotions. I just knew I felt horrible. Bad. That’s how the box works. No one ever taught me otherwise. There’s no manual for the box.
I stuffed some more in there when I was thirteen. Similar emotions to the ones from four years earlier. I used to say thirteen’s trauma was way worse than nine’s, but it doesn’t really matter. That box weighs the same, no matter what you put in it. No point in comparing stories. A heavy box is a heavy box.
I tossed a towel over the box so it wouldn’t be staring me in the face. Stuffed it deep into my soul and kept myself busy with other things so I wouldn’t notice it. I always knew it was there, but if I made my life busy enough, or hazy enough, I could forget it was right inside me, even if for a little bit. You don’t notice things so much if you’re numb.
I wasn’t even aware I was putting things in there. Only in hindsight can I tell you about this. That’s just how it goes. I don’t make the rules. No manual, remember? It just is what it is.
It’s no different than putting a box in the corner of your living room and leaving it there for a few decades. Eventually, you become so used to it being there, you don’t even notice it anymore. It becomes a normalized part of the scenery.
Until something happens, like maybe you rearrange your furniture. Then, it sticks out like a sore thumb, and you say, “That ugly box has been sitting there forever; I’m getting rid of it.” If only it were that easy with the soul box.
I rearranged my life a few years ago, and boy, did I suddenly notice the box. I couldn’t believe I’d normalized the weight of that thing for almost my entire life. I had become so used to it, I almost forgot what was in it. No wonder I was so tired. Lugging that thing around, letting it determine my life.
I had to rip it to get it open. I clawed it open till my fingers bled while walking through a firestorm. No, not really. That’s just an analogy for the pain one feels when opening the soul box. Everything I had stuffed in there oozed out, like a can of crescent rolls. Can’t fit that stuff back in there once you open it. It was everywhere. Messy.
I let the contents go. Sounds so simple. It’s not. But it is. It’s both.
I’m so light now, I can fly. Soar, really.
Sometimes, I catch myself tucking something in there again. I think it’s human nature. The key is to be aware it exists. Know we all have the box, and it’s OK that we want to put things in there. Learn how to walk inside there and learn how to get out. Be comfortable with the mess, so you aren’t afraid to clean it out. And instead of normalizing the weight of it all, we need to learn how to normalize the lightness of an empty box. Normalize the release of emotions. Experience them, and let them go instead of ignoring them and stuffing them down. Society needs to stop normalizing the stuffing of the soul box.
Wait, did I just write the manual?
This post was written in response to Linda G. Hill’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday
