Relationship with boxes

My friend listened to me go on about my disturbance of moving. I had spent so much time in this tiny space that emerging from it was an emotional upheaval – one that was unexpected.

I hated this tiny “hole” as I called it. I longed for the unappreciated luxury of my past place and dreamed of the possibilities that could happen if I could ever leave – that damn box.

The time came – after 7 years – the day I waited for, moving day, was marked on my calendar. The boxes arrived. I was approaching time to move up – to move out.

Acquaintances asked me if I was excited. Neighbors wished me well and politely asked where in town was I venturing too. I reacted like a freaked out idiot, at first – not knowing what to say and awkwardly smiling and changing the subject. I excused myself by explaining I had so much to do, that date was wayyyy off in the future.

The morning of the move, I rushed off to a Drs appointment. I had missed the exit, and was in for a long drive around a mountain to get to a point to turn around and go back to my designated path.

During this time, I drove in silence. My
thoughts took me on a trip of my past.

Unlike conscious thought iq of well told memories, my mind took the moment to show me things that I had left out of my story. The tiny things I edited from my memory over the years.

The trigger was a car changing lanes to my left. I was in no danger. The merging car was not close to me. That second I saw it move… my mind took me to my car accident.

“The accident” occurred over a decade ago. I tell you that statement in an effort to discredit its magnanimous impact on my life.

I never remembered the impact. I rarely discuss or recall the months prior to that time. It was like a start over. A dawn into trying times. Into learning to walk again. Into evaluating my life dreams of being an anchor. A time that could have been used for rebuilding was a point of shame for me. I lost a semester of college, I had to go home in a body cast to recover. I was completely dependent and living at home and physically broken.

Prior to the accident – The man I loved ended our relationship. I struggled within my young mind on how to re-formulate what life would be like with out my plans of marrying him one day. I fought with my parents (who officially divorced on my birthday.) I had learned my best friend from HS had died unexpectedly. I helped another friend fend off suicidal thoughts.
I had lost friends because they didn’t yet understand why a broken hearted person was no longer fun.

Once home again, wrapped in a plaster cast – I learned my father was going to be a father again – I had to face the eventuality that my life was not mine and everyone was changing.

I recovered fully. I never dealt with the impact – literally or figuratively.

Back in the present day, in my car – a decade later – in my “adult” car- an insignificant movement …triggered tears. Huge tears.

The path I took around the mountain, lead me in a road similar to the one I had crashed on.

From a place within me I had a soul-retrieval of acknowledgment – respect – release – for the me now, then and before the accident.

Through tears, I released the hold of negative impact and in-organic feelings that separated my pre-trauma self from moving forward with ME.

Startled, after this moment, I called a friend and explained my experience and my lament of leaving “the box”.

As this story started… I explained to her the life that had gone on while I had spent so much time in one spot. People told me they loved me, people died, people were born, I had heartbreak, victory and strife…Life happened while I was sitting in that box.

My friend said I had a relationship with a space. That was a slap. Had an object become my prison and my security ? A mascot for life ?

It didn’t matter … the time had come to move (on).

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