Life in a Box
No, I’m not a homeless person, but I have lived much of my life in a box. Not a cardboard box, but an imaginary box surrounding my body and restricting my every move.
I spent nearly 20 years in school, sitting at a desk.
I wrote a Master’s thesis, a disseration, and four books, typing and sitting at a desk.
I spent another 20 years counseling others, while sitting.
Now I work as a medical consultant, reviewing medical records, typing, all the while sitting at a desk.
My favorite hobby has been scrapbooking, mostly done at a table or a desk.
When I stop and think about it, it’s no surprise that I have pain from my shoulders, down through my arms, and all the way to my fingertips.
But there’s more. And this part is harder to share. Not only have my physical movements been restricted, but my emotional repertoire has been limited as well. I’ve lived most of my life as a people-pleasing good girl. In other words, I don’t do anger well. I don’t want to make others mad, and I definitely don’t want others mad at me. (At least 20 minutes have gone by with me staring blankly at the screen.) I’m drawing a blank at knowing what else to write; that’s how out of touch I am with anger. If you asked me, “What makes me angry?” I would be hard-pressed to come up with an answer. I’m not sure I even know what it feels like. I recently read that anxiety is a reaction to repressed anger. It’s a bit too Freudian-sounding to me, but what if there’s even a grain of truth to it? I may not do anger, but I certainly excel in anxiety.
I’m not sure where this all is going, and it’s disconcerting.
My challenge is not the typical “think outside the box.” No, I have to figure out a way to live outside the box. Even if that means getting off my butt and kicking some ass. (Oh my, that last sentence is so not me.)