Boxes In The Attic

I put negative experiences and their pain away – out of sight of my mind’s eye.  I have an attic somewhere where I have rows of shelves full of boxes of different sizes, shapes and colours.  Boxes made of a variety of materials – not of wood or cardboard; my emotional boxes are made from harder, more secure substances – iron, steel.  Once I have felt the searing pain of rejection, humiliation, injustice or loss I mentally stuff it – sometimes screaming for attention like a tantruming 2 year old – into an impenetrable coffin.  I find a space on a dusty shelf and shove it there.  I walk away without a backward glance. 

Some boxes just sit there silently, defeated.  I can easily ignore those.  Some boxes shift a little every now and then – I hear them but won’t acknowledge them.  There are a few though that are clever at bumping their way back into my conscious self every now and then.  They are the Big Boxes and their labels read “Abusive Ex”, “Parents” and “Self Doubt”.  Those boxes are huge and too heavy for me to put back on their shelves by myself.  I have enlisted the help of friends and professionals who are qualified to manual handle such loads with complete safety.  Over the years they have assisted me with peeking into the contents and sometimes even repack them with tissue and cotton wool.  My helpers have shared the lifting of those boxes back onto the shelves and held my hand as I tiptoe away from the attic. Let those boxes grumble and groan occasionally.  I can handle them.

The one that I am most afraid of is a small, tiny, unassuming looking box made of lead.  It sits there quietly.  It is overlooked the majority of the time but I know it’s there.  It’s a dark and dangerous box.  Its contents can unravel any situation.  The power held in there can ruin beautiful experiences.  It has the ability to destroy hope, relationships, ambition – anything I dare to dream for myself.  I am fearful of that dark corner of the attic where that cruel and clever box resides.  It’s a poisonous insect, a trapdoor spider sat waiting for its next meal of negativity to come along.  I have sat for hours shivering with fear looking at that box and not daring to open it but knowing that eventually I will have to lift the lid and let it out. That box is labelled “Unlovable”.

Experience and common sense has taught me that the smallest box in the attic is wrong, it shouldn’t be there.  Its contents live because I allow it to be fed small morsels of attention occasionally.  It will exist until I have the courage to confront it, rage at it, let it know it can no longer threaten the core of all I hold dear.  I need to conquer it and I will.  One day. When I’m ready.