I used an over-the-door organizer in Oregon bc I had seen Ruthie do it at her house. The thing is that my closet was 4 inches deep and everyone who opened that door just laughed bc it was so shallow. I managed to store my vacuum in there and would occasionally stuff my ironing board in the back when I bothered to fold it up. Otherwise I could put some aprons on the peg and that was it. But I found the space useful and derived a sense of satisfaction from seeing the pocket-organizer labeled and holding my little odds and ends neatly.
Over the past few weeks I’ve been trying to figure out if I’m suppressing the feelings that accompany the kind of trauma/drama that happened, or if I’m experiencing true transformation. Recap: my goal is transformation bc I feel that suppression, while allowing me to be functional for a while, would not be a sustainable option in the long run. I’ve decided that I can legitimately say that this is a transformational process. I’m living it and the occasional sadness that bubbles up is to be expected and a natural outcome from this experience.
Let me spell it out for you: I don’t think I’m kidding myself into pretending this is okay. I decided that on Decision Day aka The Turning Point. But as I ponder going back to OR etc. I get sad because I remember things like how I never saw my apartment again…and I had been happy there. Like I said last week, when I understood that this really happened I was confronted by the obliteration of my Old Life and what were my future prospects. As my mind healed enough to take in the enormity of my injury’s impact the disappointment was acute. But I am confident that I will not be disappointed in the long run which is why I’m going for transformation, not suppression.
The hope of the future is enough for me in the present bc God’s care and provision for me has been proven over and over in ways no human mind could have orchestrated. Because of this confidence I can afford to laugh liberally (and I do – thanks, everyone, for being willing to laugh with me!).
For the last couple of years I’ve stuffed sad thoughts into little boxes akin to an over-the-door pocket organizer. Each box has the name of a hospital or another place on it and when I think of something that’s too hard to remember I mentally run to that box and stuff it in. As I plan to go back and see my hospitals and get my things out of storage those boxes have been smashed to smithereens. The contents are floating freely in my mind and compartmentalization is no longer a viable coping strategy, and I’m, erm, adjusting. Everything that happened is a part of my personal history now and I will not be afraid of it anymore. I’m well enough to think about these things more often now. This is not to say that it doesn’t still hurt, I’m just pointing out that I have toughened up (or am trying to) to the point that I can acknowledge that all that crazy stuff happened and am okay with talking about it. I also enjoy the fact that although the original prognosis was that I wouldn’t be the same I’m more “ME” than ever – and I can still get all up in your grill. 🙂 So watch out.