Boxes

All of the things that I stuffed under my bed are building. The withering boxes are overflowing. For my whole life, I’ve tried to organize everything into neat little boxes so they’d never have to be touched again. I categorized and stuffed things into these cardboard fantasy lands, hoping that would fix the problem. How can I remember things if they’re stored away? This system has worked for so many years. Something bad happens, goes in the box, and I keep moving forward as if it never happened. But as the years progress, the boxes keep growing, and the space under my bed becomes more and more crammed with these things that I refused to see. As a result, my storage is becoming overcrowded and filled with viruses that haunt my past.

Using the boxes only helped me in the short term. They helped me survive, but what happens after I’m out of the gauntlet; what then? I still, to this day, cannot forget the pain; I cannot forget the memories because they always stay with me. I’ve realized I’ve outgrown those dusty old boxes under my bed. They serve no purpose to me anymore.

My past, my boxes, each piece binds together and makes me who I am. And I like who I am. So, it’s time to unpack those boxes and begin my life new because no one else can do that for me. Not today or tomorrow; I hold the key to unlocking what’s inside. And I think it’s time I tried.