Containers
I wonder and think about love a lot. How it shows up in my life, my body, and the world. I wonder about it and if there’s too much or not enough made of it. I think about responsibly loving people and how powerful of a thing it is to be loved in way that affirms your being, your presence, your existence. I think about how harmful it is when love is withheld and made into things and actions and behaviors that don’t support the essence of what it is. I think about how damaging it is to ask people to love you with their all and then make it difficult for them to do so.
“Sometimes, you feel overwhelmed and can only deal with so much at a time. One technique is to place some things in a container until you have the capacity to handle them. But you have to go back, take those things out of the container, and deal with them. That’s the thing: you always have to go back and get your stuff and deal with it.”
My therapist has been patient with me. I’m on and off. I move appointments, cancel appointments, decide not to show up for appointments and send messages like, “I’m sorry, this is all too much for me right now. I’ll reach back out when I’m ready even though I’m not sure when that will be.” She’s not in a rush though. She’s far more understanding than I think I deserve. She tells me it’s a complicated process. Moving slowly and gently encouraging me to take my time and pace myself because there’s a lot here. A lot to sort through. A lot more sense to be made of these old feelings and experiences I thought I had under control.
It’s 3am-ish on some day of some week. My mind refuses to hold on to any of these particulars during this particular season. I’ve now tossed and turned enough and decide to roll out of bed and make use of the dark morning hours in our quiet house. This inability to rest which leads to early morning sitting and thinking has become a ritual of sorts. I’m thinking it’s time I address what’s in those containers.
I’m obsessed with nostalgia. I like the art of remembering. I like how I get to shape my thoughts around all these beautiful encounters I’ve had with folks who have passed or moved on and those I’m still trying to make more memories with. Sometimes I’m the main character. Sometimes it’s just me mentally witnessing what was as a bystander. Sometimes it’s just me consuming art somebody made that captures nostalgia in ways that resonate.
I know all about this practice of placing things inside containers though. I’ve subconsciously been compartmentalizing for longer than I can pinpoint with an exact date. I just know it’s been a very long time and I also know I’m exceptionally good at it. Too good at it. The placing part. Not the retrieving part. I’m not really interested in what’s stored in some of those containers. I don’t really want all remembering.
“I'm ready for more therapy and to really work through the stuff I've been carrying.” I’m embarrassed when I type this sentence to my therapist and hit send. I bought a new journal because it’s empty and clean and even though I know a new journal isn’t any sort of fix, it has this way of feeling like a start at the fixing.
Whatever sense I’ve tried to make of love, I know it will show you who you are and what you’re holding and what you need to let go of. I know it will ask for your own improved health and necessary transformations. I know it asks you to become more like it. And as you strive to mimic it, I think it then asks you to fully become it. To live and navigate from an unburdened posture. From a place where your light and being are uninhibited. And I know this doesn’t exempt me from feeling and experiencing life and that healing is a linear, maybe even life-long process. I know love isn’t magic or a cure-all. I’m just fully aware of how it matters and what I’m able to give to myself and everyone I encounter when I’m carrying less.