Alright kiddies, gather ’round…its Imagination time!
Imagine your life as a bunch of events. Events that defined you, refined you, scared you shitless, made you laugh until you puked, cried until you went hoarse. If you were to put these bunches into individual boxes, how many would you tape shut, wrap with kevlar, heatshrink shut again, chain and padlock, then shove into the deepest darkest corner of your closet you could find?
Three? Five? Ten?
I’ve got entire years shoved into little mental safeboxes, crammed into the closets of my brain. They are so breach-proof that I wonder from time to time if I am keeping that shit in the box or keeping me out of the box.
Every so often I come across a group of people on Fet that make me re-evaluate my stockpile of “The world would end” boxes. I am amazed at their dedication, their zest for not only opening their boxes over and over again, but how they can take the things out of the box, play with it, manipulate it, and sometimes be able to just throw it on the trash heap at the end. Other times the box they put it back in to is smaller and needs less tape and chains.
They write about these encounters, and I seek them out religiously, vicariously experience the freedom and terror that is confronting the scariest, most damaging times of your life and coming out the other side still relatively intact. I can’t fathom why they do it. I can’t fathom how. Just reading their accounts makes me queasy, agitated, and I often remember something so much more pressing that needed to be found half way through, like, say, I don’t know…Lolcats for example.
Invariably I find myself back at their writings, forcing my self to mentally masticate what they have exposed to the light of day. I try to analyze why it makes my head hurt and I get spastic. Just words on a (net)page, right?
It all boils down to the constant realization that I am not strong enough to meddle in my past, to air it out and eliminate its hold on my psyche. I spend a lot of time convincing myself that putting it all in boxes and pretending that didn’t happen is good for me, that I’ve put it behind myself and everything in that closet has nothing to do with who I am now.
Complete and udder bullshit. (get it? haha. Yes, I know, bulls don’t have udders. Shut up.)
What is in the boxes has made me who I am now. To deny the contents of all of my boxes is to deny the forces that shaped me into the delightful derelict that types before you. I can ignore the closet as much as I can ignore my freckles or my penchant for dry British humor.
I’m still not strong enough to open them and take stock again. I still don’t fully comprehend the why behind the other people doing it. I wonder if inventorying my closet is really that important. More important than, say, more lolcats. I wonder if the screaming and puking and scalding dark showers really need to be experienced again in the name of being truthful with myself.
When does it stop being healing and start being pain for the sake of pain?
Do I want to come anywhere near finding the line?