Inside the box

As I sit in my room, procrastinating today’s entry, I see my clothes in the closet-many haven’t been worn in years-and the bookshelves I most recently re-organized. I made a box for donations and a box to go in storage. It feels good to have cleaned up and gotten some of my belongings in place.

I moved back home with my parents in April of 2009. Part escape, part urgent need for a sense of home, I slid easily back into the role of child. Then, my Dad’s health (which was already poor) steeply declined in July of 2010 and I was quickly jolted into the role of caregiver and definite equals with my Mom. We cared for my Dad, her husband, until the moment he passed. It changed me in a lot of ways that I have not really understood, yet. Except one, one thing I will never be a again, an innocent child. The role-reversal with my own father was starkly jaunting for me. I may never have my own children, but I know all too well the feeling of another human being completely helpless and needing you to survive. Needing you to help them eat, drink, go to the bathroom. There is a primal instinct that comes when you have children, and I believe it is the same when you care for anything helpless.

So, as I sit in my childhood room, it is VERY metaphoric of my life right now. My room is full, cluttered, with a king size bed that allows just enough room for a chair and a chest of drawers. I have two closets, but one has my Mom’s winter clothes in it and other seasonal hodgepodge. My adult, married, home-owning life things do not fit in this room but I have made it work just like I make the fact that I am still in this somewhat stagnant time in my life where I have independent tendencies and a job; but, I am not living or working to my full capacity. I am stuck in a small space with a lot of life that has already been lived that is  no longer fitting in my space. Dare I say, I am outgrowing myself? I don’t know, but I know that when I look at the room I have created for my adult self that once housed my childhood, it is not big enough for all that I have. Just as this semi-stagnant life I am outgrowing.

It is an exciting and scary feeling. My stagnancy has been completely (mental) health based or driven but I am watching myself come out of it. I am making and attaining goals. Small at first, with plans of bigger and bigger. Plans, even. It has been a long time since I have said the word ‘plans’ without a distressed sigh or an outright verbal complaint accompanied with a teen-like eye roll. Not today. Today, I feel glad to look at the organization in my room and liken it to the momentum my life is gaining. I know I will get out of this box.

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