Little Box of Horrors

Lately, in therapy, I’ve been working on some (apparently) abandonment issues that began when I was a little girl.

They have now come free from their hiding place and swirl around in my head, threatening all the feelings.

Damn that box, their child-sized prison, for not being stronger to keep them all in. It was set up a long time ago, by a scared little girl who feared losing her family, and everyone she loved. The little girl grew, but the box didn’t, and neither did the horrible treasures it held.

Aged cedar warped and swelled with the weight of each little grief, each childhood fear as they tried to make room for real fears and grown-up griefs.

Childhood fears and grown up griefs, together, form a most ferocious monster; more terrifying than any who might have made their home under your bed for a season.

Rumi would tell me to welcome the monster, pat it on the head every now and then; because it may have been sent as a guide from the beyond. No offense to Rumi, but I’m not doing that.

I’ll look at it in its face, and address it by its many names. I’ll speak to it, and I’ll ask it to let me go. But I won’t welcome it; I won’t welcome it because the shards of that little grief box, the unaddressed griefs and the long suppressed fears need space to grow up, to become healed and to become their own guides from the past and the beyond –

to help that little girl, scared of being left alone, to learn to accept love as much as she loves others;

to believe God’s promises for herself as much as she preaches them to her flock;

to let go of fears that have been her survival and make room for courage that will be her freedom.


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