LJ Idol Exhibit A - Topic 01 - Hung Up on the Past
o/` "Well I’m sick, I’m annoyed
And I’m nasty and I’m incomplete
I am angry, I am lost
Yeah I’m hard as stone
I am sore, well I am worried
And I’m disgusted
I am lonely and I’m scared
And it’s crushing me o/`
-- "Work in Progress" performed by Sister Hazel
Several years ago --- I misremember on exactly which humor site it went viral --- a photograph appeared of a plain, brown, cardboard packing box which had been upended so that the stamp of its contents could be clearly read. It had contained, according to the bold black lettering, forty pounds of rape.
Stunned, I had stared at the screen for a moment in shock and disbelief. Who the bloody hell thought this was funny? Rape wasn't funny. The idea of opening up a box and spilling out all that trauma, doubt, and self hatred wasn't funny.
I didn't realize I had begun laughing out loud until Mr. Shapeshifter asked what had tickled me so. From that moment forward, the forty pound box of rape became a family joke.
We all have incidents, feelings, and thoughts we'd like to forget. As they occur, we carefully pack them into a metaphorical cardboard box and tape it shut. Much like grandma's attic, the mind acquires several of these boxes over the course of a lifetime. We don't label the contents because we don't want to ever recall the contents nor do we want to inflict them on others. They remain in the back of the mind, bound securely with duct tape, gathering dust in the shadows. Societal conventions forbid looking at or digging through anyone else's boxes. It doesn't matter that our box of rape might be someone else's ecstatic release or that, like a festering sore, some things simply need burst wide open and exposed to the healing air.
Those boxes are off limits.
I take medications to ensure that my boxes remain pristine and unbroken: LexaPro for generalized anxiety disorder, Wellbutrin for depression. They don't blunt the pointy items in those boxes but they do help me forget I have those boxes of rape in my attic in the first place. I don't see a psychologist or a counselor because doing so might require opening my boxes and dragging out whatever lies inside. I'm certain to get cut on their rusted, pointy edges. I don't realize that they've already poisoned me. It's safer to live in drug-softened misery than it is to find the cure. The usual prognosis for people in my condition --- all those boxes of rape, stacked to the rafters until they threaten to bury me alive and block out the sunlight which could have streamed through the window --- is suicide.
Remission came unexpectedly, brought by a man I didn't like with enough boxes of rape to rival my own. He didn't follow society's rules. He didn't ask permission. He gently, reverently blew the dust and cobwebs away from the boxes....and upended every single one on the old wooden floor. He stared down, rearranged a few pieces, tinkered with the broken edges until they aligned once more. Through his eyes, I saw the treasure: things others would indeed appreciate which I had locked away as useless. Through his eyes, I saw garbage: grudges nursed carefully as children, insults and slights imprinted on the tattered old burdens I had assumed; other people's issues, not mine.
He won't apologize for invading my privacy and I do not expect him to do so. We both still have our boxes of rape, but I like to think there's considerably less than forty pounds in there now. It's not sealed with duct tape either; the flaps are merely folded neatly to hold in the contents but never again to banish them from memory.
I still take my medications but now I know why I take them and I know when to stop digging through those boxes, close their tops....and walk away into sunlight.
And I’m nasty and I’m incomplete
I am angry, I am lost
Yeah I’m hard as stone
I am sore, well I am worried
And I’m disgusted
I am lonely and I’m scared
And it’s crushing me o/`
-- "Work in Progress" performed by Sister Hazel
Several years ago --- I misremember on exactly which humor site it went viral --- a photograph appeared of a plain, brown, cardboard packing box which had been upended so that the stamp of its contents could be clearly read. It had contained, according to the bold black lettering, forty pounds of rape.
Stunned, I had stared at the screen for a moment in shock and disbelief. Who the bloody hell thought this was funny? Rape wasn't funny. The idea of opening up a box and spilling out all that trauma, doubt, and self hatred wasn't funny.
I didn't realize I had begun laughing out loud until Mr. Shapeshifter asked what had tickled me so. From that moment forward, the forty pound box of rape became a family joke.
We all have incidents, feelings, and thoughts we'd like to forget. As they occur, we carefully pack them into a metaphorical cardboard box and tape it shut. Much like grandma's attic, the mind acquires several of these boxes over the course of a lifetime. We don't label the contents because we don't want to ever recall the contents nor do we want to inflict them on others. They remain in the back of the mind, bound securely with duct tape, gathering dust in the shadows. Societal conventions forbid looking at or digging through anyone else's boxes. It doesn't matter that our box of rape might be someone else's ecstatic release or that, like a festering sore, some things simply need burst wide open and exposed to the healing air.
Those boxes are off limits.
I take medications to ensure that my boxes remain pristine and unbroken: LexaPro for generalized anxiety disorder, Wellbutrin for depression. They don't blunt the pointy items in those boxes but they do help me forget I have those boxes of rape in my attic in the first place. I don't see a psychologist or a counselor because doing so might require opening my boxes and dragging out whatever lies inside. I'm certain to get cut on their rusted, pointy edges. I don't realize that they've already poisoned me. It's safer to live in drug-softened misery than it is to find the cure. The usual prognosis for people in my condition --- all those boxes of rape, stacked to the rafters until they threaten to bury me alive and block out the sunlight which could have streamed through the window --- is suicide.
Remission came unexpectedly, brought by a man I didn't like with enough boxes of rape to rival my own. He didn't follow society's rules. He didn't ask permission. He gently, reverently blew the dust and cobwebs away from the boxes....and upended every single one on the old wooden floor. He stared down, rearranged a few pieces, tinkered with the broken edges until they aligned once more. Through his eyes, I saw the treasure: things others would indeed appreciate which I had locked away as useless. Through his eyes, I saw garbage: grudges nursed carefully as children, insults and slights imprinted on the tattered old burdens I had assumed; other people's issues, not mine.
He won't apologize for invading my privacy and I do not expect him to do so. We both still have our boxes of rape, but I like to think there's considerably less than forty pounds in there now. It's not sealed with duct tape either; the flaps are merely folded neatly to hold in the contents but never again to banish them from memory.
I still take my medications but now I know why I take them and I know when to stop digging through those boxes, close their tops....and walk away into sunlight.