The Girl In The Box

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Am I the only one that feels like I always say or do the wrong thing at the wrong time?  I don’t mean sinning or even unintentionally hurting others.  It just seems, no matter how much thought I put into something (text, e-mail, letter, blog, conversation), and no matter how good I feel about it at the time, I always feel completely stupid later.  I second guess myself and how others might perceive me or my motives.  I feel completely socially inept.  Someone should lock me in a box somewhere and throw away the key.

 

Speaking of locked boxes:  I have a cedar chest that I have kept locked for the last few years.  It’s full of odd miscellaneous things and memories from my life.  There isn’t any big secret reason why it’s been locked, except that I don’t want people rifling through it (and I may have a few trust issues) and I’ve moved several times recently and it’s easier to pick up when locked.  I unlocked it tonight.  Not to take a big trip down memory lane, but because I was looking for my high school yearbook.  I’m trying to find a picture of someone I went to school with, that I can’t remember.  It’s been almost ten years and I was only at the school my senior year, so it’s understandable that I wouldn’t remember every name.  This person apparently remembers me, though, and I know I could remember them if I could see a picture. 

 

It was so weird going through that chest.  I didn’t take time to sit and go through everything, but I know what everything is.  It’s full of journals (from age 11 and up) and letters and weird memories (plastic eyeball, Star Trek figurine, a book of poetry, awards…).  Some of it is self-explanatory and some of it you would never understand (like why a plastic eyeball reminds me of a long ago friend). 

 

The first thing I did, after opening the chest, was cut my right ring finger on the serving knife from my wedding.  (The only way that could have been anymore symbolic was if it had been my left hand.)  I cut it pretty good.  It made me mad and I threw the knife away.  Then I searched through tons of letters from Ed, without allowing myself to read any of them.  I need to spend an afternoon really going through that stuff and store and/or throw away all of my stuff pertaining to Ed.  Then I won’t mind looking through my old memories. 

 

I have many many blank notebooks and journals in my chest.  Some I’ve had for years.  That’s the story of my life.  There is something almost sacred to me about a blank page.  But, once you write on it, you can’t take it back.  I never know where to start and so I never do.  Is there a lesson to be learned from this?  I’m sure there is, but I’m too tired to flesh it out right now. 

 

The thing that struck me the most while looking through this chest was: Who was this girl in the box?  What were her dreams?  What were her fears?  What did she think?  How did she feel?  Who is she?  I’m not the same person I was two years ago – for better or for worse (probably a bit of both).  I don’t recognize the girl/woman I used to be.  Part of me looks at her in contempt and thinks how naive she was.  Part of me wishes to have the world at my feet and my future spread out before me again.

 

I never found my yearbook.  It must be packed away with my books.  (My whole life feels packed away at times.)  I did find a newspaper cutout of my graduating class.  I found the name I was looking for, but the faces were so small and blurred that I couldn’t make out the person.  Oh well.  That was another life…

 

 

 

 

 

 

Update: Right after writing this post, I went to another site and read a post that really spoke to me about how I am feeling tonight.  It’s not the exact same situation, but certain parts stood out to me, about how God knows our hopes and dreams, even the ones that seem suffocated by time and inaction.  You can read the post here:   http://97secondswithgod.blogspot.com/2008/06/genesis-16-out-of-sight.html  

* I wrote two posts today, so scroll down to read the other one. *

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Filed under pieces of me

Tags: childhood, friends, memories