We are moving on.
We pack baggage in sturdy cartons and label each one. The heavy boxes are smaller because we distribute the load with intention these days. They are stackable and organized, and the text is bold but not too loud because we need to scan them easily. The rest of the world doesn’t need to make out the letters.
The boxes now have rooms where they belong, and they are quiet, safe, and themed.
It is so much easier to sift through and direct each one.
Childhood. Put that in the back room. We know it’s there, and we’ve seen what it holds. Don’t forget to turn the lights off before you close the door. We’re going to let that sleep.
Teenage angst stays slightly relevant in the mudroom where we wipe our feet. It was important to get out there and see the world, but we’re only going to bring out seasonal artifacts for nostalgia and a little reminder of who we could have been.
Two decades of adulthood go in adjoining rooms with the shared bathroom. There’s some crossover and lessons learned, and we’re going to go in and out until we stop finding the ways we should have been better and appreciate how layered we are.
Out in the living room are the things we didn’t know were ours. ADHD, RSD, perimenopause, pre-diabetes, anxiety…
There’s a cabinet in the corner where the fragile boxes go. Grief, loss, the overwhelming acceptance that this is where we live now, all carefully wrapped in protective layers of learned self-soothing, handle-with-care stickers softly accenting their decorated containers because we’ve painted them to blend into the decor.
And now we are sitting with the miscellaneous boxes, the ones we left to the last minute, running around throwing things in without thought just so we could tape them up and ship them out before we lost our nerve.
It is time to unpack me.
It is time to reach into the box, pull something out, and decide where it belongs.
Does it go with childhood trauma, asleep and content where we no longer have to live? Does it need to be added to the heavy winter gear box sitting on a shelf above the hooks where careless summer coats live? Maybe it’s not that old and can fit with growth. Perhaps it’s just neurological, and we’re giving it too much weight? No, it’s hormones. We can toss it over the couch and pick it back up anytime we want. We are relieved it’s not fragile; we don’t have time to be derailed.
One down, too many more to go.
Colloquially Speaking 