THE BOX

Today we are decorating a box.  It is a difficult task for us to do.  We all have something we want to put on the box as a decoration.  Probably, it will be cluttered on the outside with our stuff...little souvenirs of things we like.  But, hello...it is our box so who cares?  I hope it is large enough.  We are going to fill this box with our written memories.  We have to write them because we cannot utter the words aloud.  There is a block between our thoughts and our voice.  There are a LOT of memories.   So the inside of the box will be cluttered also.   Eventually, when we are ready, if that day ever comes...we will take the memories and burn or bury them.  I choose burn.  I feel partial to burning.  And since the idea was given to ME, well hell, it wil be "burn baby burn".  Yes, 'N'/'SW' (still cannot decide which to use) suggested this to ME!  Yes me, little piss ant DEV.  The one who believes all she wants to do is play 'head games'.   I don't know.  Am I letting her suck me into her vacuum, only to find out later she had always planned to throw away the bag of dirt that she sucked up in her vacuum?  Is she going to hurt me just like the previous one and the one before that and everyone else in my life.  When she finds out who I am and what I am like, will she hate me?   Will she be frightened by me?  So many questions, they drive me crazy.  But, really, WHAT DO I HAVE TO LOSE?  Nothing.  Life is so painful and so bad and filled with confusion.  How can it be worse?  I don't think it could be worse. 


So, the next time I see her I am going to ask if she will keep the box in her office.  There is no place safe here for us to keep it.  I want to make a small shrine in her office.  From the Latin etymology shrine is scrinium (case, chest).  That is what this will be...a chest of relics (NOT SAINTLY), but it will be a remembrance of days gone by.  But, they really have not gone by...because they are re-lived in our mind
just as if they are happening again.  It is called PTSD.  It is called D.I.D.  It is called ab reaction.  It is called HELL.   And I think she might really believe us.  I think she might really know how to help us help ourselves.  Or at least, I think she is willing to try. 


I cannot think any more.  I am weary.  I wish I could call her.