Boxed in
Monday, March 14, 2011 at 10:30PM 
I’m afraid to be locked in a box. I've been living out of boxes for so many years that the mere thought of stepping into one again gives me shivers. And yet I do have boxes in my way, and I have to step into them, whether I want it or not. If they're not defined by me, they're defined by others - but their lids won’t close in on me like they did in the past. They're cardboard, not steel. They have no locks. They’re simply containers for life’s patterns – for us to make sense of it, to categorize it, to somehow define the chaos we live in, put some definitions in place, so that we can tell stories. Hey, I stepped into that box yesterday, it’s called a marriage – what do you think? Hey, remember that box we went to, called vacation? Shall we do it again one day? Yeah, this box I woke up in, called depression, I need to get myself out of it this month.
There is one requirement to see the sky above my head, there is one minimal thing that will tell me that I can jump out at any time, that no chains are holding me down, that nobody has any control over me – trust. Which I lack. I’m used to being contained. Locked up and ferried away. Like cattle. Headed for the box called a slaughter house. Fearing for life because there are no windows to peak out from. Remembering the first time I was put in a box, called love. The first time I stepped into it, fully trusting. The first time I realized it was an iron maiden in disguise. The first time I bled and hurt and cried out. The first time I was taken out to be soothed, momentarily. Just to quiet me down, to be put in the next box, and then the next, and the next. By number 10 I became quiet. By number 50 I didn’t feel pain anymore. By number 100, I stepped in voluntarily. And when it was over, I kept making steel boxes myself. It was same old, same old – I knew it, it felt almost comfortable. If I couldn’t make the box myself, I would find people who enjoyed making them for me, who enjoyed locking me up, who enjoyed poking me through key holes, sometimes getting frustrated that I wouldn’t wince. Kicking me out and leaving me boxless. Sometimes my own will for freedom would make me break out – only to put myself into a new box, again. It would look nice and shiny and polished on the inside at first. I would think - ok, this is it. It's walls are like mirrors! I can see my true self. This is the safety that I was looking for. Then wake up one day and realize that I want out.
I would jump and run, like in an Escher picture - lost. I would think I'd go up, but I'd be going down. I'd think I'd go left, but I would be going right. Running through doors, breaking through windows. I rebelled. I told everyone - I don't want any more boxes. In fact, I don't need any! Fuck it! I can be on my own, without any definition, without boundaries, simply existing. I will show you all how to do it - try to follow me! Ah, you're scared? You have no guts? Goodbye then. I'm off. And I would push them all aside and run in between, into nothing. I was so busy running, that when I ran out of breath and looked around - I realized I'm still among boxes - simply because I'm among people. And even if I don't label anything, others will label it for me. I would throw it off, they would put it on. I can choose to ignore it for a while, but it will catch up with me eventually. It did. I said, ok. Ok, I am stepping into one. I'm terrified of it closing in on me. Its walls collapsing. Its air growing stale. Its surface abrasing my soul. Its corners sucking out my happiness and freedom. I don't trust it. I want to throw it off. But we're all part of the grid. It's there, I'm there, I'm in. I'm always in one - or many at the same time - called "being alone", "being in a relationship", "being a single mom", "being a good sleeper", "being a woman". Each time I interact with someone, I play out of the box. Sometimes we jump into the same box, sometimes we all belong to a one gigantic one. Sometimes it shrinks in on me. Sometimes it grows.
I still fear the biggest one, the one that we all want to be in. The one called love. The one that holds all of us, and the one we sometimes don't see, thinking we're lost, stretching out the arms and feeling for the walls, walking around blind, desperately wanting to be safe. I know the words love and box do not go together well - but neither do words themselves go well with feelings. They're simply labels. Definitions. Common concepts that we want to identify and separate from the rest. I hide behind them, behind the words, behind my favorite definition tool. I think about it, I analyze it, I scrutinize my and other's experiences to come to conclusions. I'm afraid to simply feel, to simply trust it and go with it. To curl up like a puppy, warm and innocent, thinking that this cardboard box is the best place to be, ever. The ultimate paradise. Without fearing that someone will control me, someone will grab me, tie string to my limbs and make me dance like a puppet, to be stored away at night behind a dusty closet, forgotten. Trusting it. Trusting to be in. Choosing to be in. In love. Fully.
Photo by Royce Daniel.
Reader Comments (4)
"Locked up and ferried away. Like cattle. Headed for the box called a slaughter house..." - After reading this, I physically shuddered and envisioned myself in your shoes; very powerful imagery.
Thanks :) I try :)
What Royce said... *shiver*
Thanks guys :)