When my history became history, I was finally able to move forward. It was hard getting there though.

T always talked about getting to a place where I could put my history in a box and place it at the back of a high shelf in a closet. I would know it was there and could make choices about when and if to pull it down and look at it, but the items in the box were no longer strewn about the house where I was tripping over them, constantly seeing them, mad at them for being in the way. I thought he was a bit nuts at the time, but I realize now that is exactly (metaphorically) what I have been able to do.

The thing about old boxes on shelves in the back of closets is that you forget they are there for long periods of time. You can actually forget about them because they are just full of old stuff you don't need to live your present life. You are able to function quite well without the constant reminders tripping you up. The items aren't gone. They aren't quite forgotten. They're just designated to an appropriate location.

I think I've written about this before. My mother passed away two years ago and this last year, we went through the process of going through my parent's house and emptying out their things. We had the job of taking their boxes off the high shelves in the back of their closets . . . literally. I realized Mom had literally done what my T had helped me do figuratively. Looking through their boxes was at times nostalgic, sometimes funny, sometimes painful. It had to be done slowly and with the support of my sister. We shed a lot of tears. We laughed a lot. We got Dad to tell us lots of stories.

The process reminded me that I need to be respectful and careful of my own boxes and careful in choosing when I pull them off the shelf. They're okay up there. They're not bothering me or anyone up there on that shelf. Looking through them needs to be purposeful and respectful because I don't want to strew the items all over the floors again and start tripping over them.