Yesterday I read this amazing post by Chris at Serendipity Mine, called “The Silly Little Girl and Her Magic Closet.”

It’s a brutally raw piece I could relate to, very much. Chris speaks about her being a people pleaser and a peacemaker and how she has always put ‘stuff’ she needs to deal with into a closet, for later. But later never comes…well, until now.

A snippet:

Part of the problem with this was that over the years I took all the ‘stuff’ others did to me and just shoved it in a closet. Better to be a good girl and sit there and shut up and keep everyone happy than to cause waves of upset, hurt or disappointment. I was strong (with a big dose of stubborn) and I could get over it. I expected that with time it would all just magically disappear and make itself better. My own self cleaning magic closet.

The problem is…it never did. The hurt and the pain grew. It festered. It became infected. I started suffering from depression and then social anxiety.

Tomorrow will be my 2nd meeting with my therapist, where we pick up the story of my life at 19, having glossed over my childhood in an hour last time I was there. She wanted the run-down, then we’re going to go back and take our time over things I need to deal with.

My closet is kind of like Chris’ closet, and because I’m very much a Mental Tupperware sort of person, the things in my closet are put into boxes, all the good stuff in the front, when you first open the door, and all the bad things I don’t want to or can’t remember are in ratty old boxes shoved in the back of the closet. It’s very much like The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe, where the closet just keeps going back and back and back and gets very cold once you reach that other world.

The other thing about this closet is that it’s in it’s own Mental Tupperware too, and when I find little snippets of therapy seeping into my life, I shove it back, like it has it’s time and it’s place and I do not want the two worlds to collide.

Therapy (even in theory) is becoming very much like a sandbox for me, a place to visit, to knock down, to build up and sometimes just to plunge my fingers, heart and soul into but only while I’m there. I’ve played the last 5 minutes of my 1st therapy session over and over in my mind and each time I walk out of the therapy building, I take a deep breath of cold winter air and snap the lid shut. I don’t really acknowledge the hour of telling the doctor the details of my life.

Maybe this sounds confusing, that I’m saying my therapy stays at therapy yet I’ve played it in my head over and over, but just like the abuse, the yelling, the endless reels of absolute shit that I lived through as a child, it’s as though it’s someone else living through therapy for me. Some other little girl’s head was pushed down into her step-father’s lap, some other little girl’s mother told her that she was a selfish little bitch, some other little girl saved her brother from being murdered and some other little girl grew up and sits in that office and tells her story.

I wonder when I will own it. Do those of us who pulled a full disconnect ever own our childhoods again or is it a survival tactic?

For the record Chris, your inner little girl is anything but silly.  I hope you find your way.