The Black Box

In my chest, right in between my breasts but deeper inside, there’s a black box. It’s relatively small with sharp fucking edges, rusted and flaking like old paint on a car that was once beautiful but got into a wreck and was left in a junkyard. My black box has a lock on it. The lid hangs on squeaking metal hinges that barely give anymore. It hasn’t been opened in years.

There’s irony to this, because while the lid has stayed shut, the contents still seep out…often. The dark, green, putrid smell of the innards oozes through the holes, some large, some small, all made by years of damage: some from neglect, some from pounding, a few just for release.

Sometimes I can hold it all in, appear like a well-put-together woman of intellect and poise, but there’s no hesitation for the stench to leak out when I’m triggered. When that happens, the outer shell of Stepford shatters and comes crashing down like a hammer to a Fabergé egg. Then everyone can see. They all have a front-row seat to the carnival sideshow that is me. And they laugh in corners when I’m not around. They taunt me on invisible paper written in ink I can’t see. But I know it’s there. Everyone knows it’s there.

This is why I run. Because once I’m exposed, there’s no going back. It’s a blacklist tattooed in ink. Once people see it, I have to leave, or end it all. And sometimes I’m too tired for the cycle, too tired to face those who have seen and smelled my stench. Don’t you dare tell me I’m brave for staying. I have bills to pay. Suicide is no longer an option.

The box has dents. I like them. They add character, much like my dented Jack Daniels flask that makes me feel so fucking cool when I take a swig. But this box, my box, doesn’t make me feel special. It hurts. Sometimes more than others. “Hurt” feels so broad, so juvenile, but yet, most appropriate. The box sits deep in my chest like a child’s secret. Back then, it was light. It was placed gingerly inside me with the best of intentions.

Now, sometimes it aches. Sometimes it slips into my stomach. Sometimes it bangs against the walls of my chest cavity, sharp edges tearing tissue as it moves. Most of the time, it’s just heavy. So very heavy.

I wish I wasn’t so fragile, because I know other people have boxes too. They just learned how to contain theirs. Not me. Mine seeps. It slices. It reminds me.

It reminds me that anyone can have power over me by ignoring me, by being slightly mean, or by doing nothing at all.

It reminds me that my fragility is my own fucking fault.

It reminds me of a past I can’t remember.

It reminds me that I am not good.

Most importantly, it reminds me that love, even when genuine, will inevitably flee, fade, break, take off like a goddamn rocket. There’s just not enough room for love. My box won’t allow it.

I try to warn people. I even bought a big red flashing sign that says GET OUT for $149.99 on Amazon. It’s for everyone’s safety. But no one listens. Hell, I rarely listen. I fall victim to my own heart. Yes, I have one of those. A heart. And it tries to counter the pain, to freshen the putrid smell that leaks through the metal. It rarely wins.

“So do something about it, you lazy bitch.”

Oh, I have.

I’ve tried to clean it out with Xanax, Prozac, weed, therapy, journaling, food, no food, faith, silence, recklessness, self-hate, self-love, honesty, lies. I even tried WD-40 on the hinges. My dad always said WD-40 does the trick more often than not. In this case, the trick remains.

I’m confronting it now, giving it a name, a description, a body. If you have a box, you should know: it will fight to stay. It will call the front desk and ask for late check-out. It will chain itself to your soul like a protester to a tree. And when that doesn’t work, it will find new ways to remind you it exists.

These days, my box gives me daily reminders by forcing out small doses of sludge, only some of it. There’s still plenty left. I come into contact with it multiple times a day, stare at it, then throw it up and flush it down the toilet in the name of “healing.”

I tell myself that if I do this enough, eventually the box will be empty. Then maybe it can be repaired, and I can fill it with what it was meant to hold: confidence, self-love, and all that other bullshit.

For now, no such luck.