Packed, Taped and Stacked: Unpacking Boxes

Every few months there was a pile of papers on the counter. I would give it a quick, neat tap daily to make it appear tidy, as if it belonged there. It was comprised of mail, flyers sent home from school (SO. MANY. FLYERS.), bills, letters I needed to respond to, etc. etc. Simple things that I needed to open, organize, sign, sort and recycle—but to me it was absolutely daunting. (Still is TBH) I call it THE PILE. So instead of tackling this seemingly minute chore, each afternoon I’d whisper “tomorrow” and pour myself an afternoon cocktail…which was inevitably followed by at least two glasses of wine over the evening. Voila, task avoided. The next morning I would berate myself for not being able to accomplish a bit of paper clutter like any other self respecting mom. By the time the flogging was over it was cocktail hour. YAY! At some point after weeks, or even months, of guilt and shame, and moving it from one weeks to-do list to the next, I would finally acquiesce and dive in. Every single time I was dumbstruck on how easy it was. One hour of my life instilled such a huge sense of relief and accomplishment. Seriously, what was I even doing?

It pains me to think of all the time and mental energy I’ve wasted by turning to a G & T instead of tackling even small, mundane tasks that overwhelm me. Since I quit drinking I’ve made a connection: The reason the tiny projects overwhelm me is because I have never dealt with the BIG stuff that actually should take priority and require my attention. As a consequence all the little stuff is destroying my everyday peace and confidence and all the big stuff stands lurking in the background ready to pounce.

I was in a constant state of overwhelm. Of course, there were times when the overwhelm was genuine. My mothers mental and physical illnesses were a consistant factor. My own health struggles as well as my children needed tending to. Marital issues that everyone faces because—uh—marriage! (Side note—Even the perfectly poised and filtered instagramers we love have the same marital issues you and I have.) It’s all the stuff, we all encounter, on a daily basis plus the out of the blue emergencies that send us into a panic. You know—life.

The pattern started when I was around 15. My parents divorce, losing the family farm, my brothers stints in rehab would occur and I would think “I need to finish the Lit essay/clean the goat stalls/go to gymnastics practice/do laundry/wash my hair” and the rest would fade into the background. Lingering there until it dissipated into nothingness. 

As I got older, confronting emotions took a permeant back seat. Baptized by fire, I adapted well to my role as the calm voice of reason in a crisis. During emergencies I flew into action, figuring out the best course of care and administering it. The practical steps to solve the problem took precedence, as they should in the beginning of any emergency, but any emotional toll was left to the wayside…forever. 

When my mom called to say she had taken pills and wanted to die (not the first time or the last) my mind went through the immediate needs, a checklist of: 

1. Send the police and ambulance in her city to her house. 

2. Summon a girlfriend to take the kids for the day. 

3. Call her social worker from County Mental Health so they could start working on aftercare.

4. Speak with someone from the Suicide Hotline and explain that no, I could not bring her into my home, as I had two young children and she was a danger to herself and possibly others, so what I really needed was a 5150 bed (involuntary 72 hour psych hold).

After all those things were well in place, I told myself on the long drive home that first—I deserved a martini, and second —I would tackle the emotional weight on Monday. Tuesday at the latest. But even as I dropped the girls off at school I knew the exhaustion wouldn’t abate in the three hours before Kindergarten pickup. I needed a solid block of time to  thoroughly process what had transpired. The amount of journaling and crying and raging that I feared, once I let loose wouldn’t stop, quite simply would not fit into my schedule. And besides that—would it even scratch the surface? It was probably best to seal it up until I had enough time to “truly” unpack it, feel it, deal with it. Of course, that time never came. The days continued on with packed lunches and snacks, beach and zoo playdates, sports practices, family dinners, traditions, vacations, and more true emergencies—and I just kept filling the boxes. Packing, taping and stacking. And in between all of that I drank: to relax, and de-stress, and feel normal. 

Until I no longer felt normal.

After years of denying myself the opportunity to actually fully feel any of the feels (who has time for that?), I was ill equipped to handle just about anything, big or small. So I drank, which was very effective in quieting the constant buzzing of unfinished business in my head. The age old question of what came first the chicken or the egg could apply here. What came first: not wanting to feel and deal with the uncomfortable feelings? Or the alcohol I used to soften the edges?

So I’ve got to feel. The thought, even the thought, terrifies me. I told my new therapist on our first appointment that I have all these boxes in the corner of my head. For years they were all neatly packed, taped and stacked. I put them away with the idea that I would pull them out when I had the time and emotional energy to properly disassemble them. I told her I was convinced, at the age of 50, that they were about to topple. The room I have shoved them into is currently oozing into the rest of my brain and the door is getting harder and harder to close. (Picture cartoon me, shoulder at a 45 degree angle, grimacing in exasperation struggling to get the handle to latch, also please make me 20 lbs lighter as cartoons add at least 10 lbs.) It’s about to blow. Like a river over the floodgates after torrential rain, blow. The dam is bursting and ALL the emotional baggage I have collected is spilling out, wether I want it to or not.

I have successfully dodged a majority of the uncomfortable emotions for a better part of my life. Oh I absolutely get angry, sad, happy, excited, and afraid, but I’ve never unpacked, analyzed and sat with the Big stuff. I’ve never taken the time to figure out how those memories dictate my reactions now. And the really crazy stuff? That stuff I want to forget? The ones shoved in the farthest reaches under mounds of duct tape locked in the steal box? They are safely behind a bottle of vodka. 

Except. Now I have removed the vodka. 

Time to unpack.

Let us see what Squirt does. 

Be kind to yourself,

Jennifer