Box of Mixed Emotions

“Come again?” interrogation laced in my voice, as I asked my therapist to repeat the request.

Feeling quite vexed before my arrival, I cross off my body dramatically, knowing this will display my displeasure.

He sighed, a chuckle hidden beneath brown, almost black eyes. Shaped like the cushion cut diamond that adorned my finger. His eyes are kind yet fierce, almost like my father and the reason why I’ve kept him around as long as I did.

No, that isn’t quite right. More like, I wish my father could be more like the charismatic man that sits before me. His nonchalant demeanor, stark contrast of the heat that lays at his very depths. Face wrinkled, aged with kindness, he makes me less… on edge then most other humans that inhabit the Earth.

“Imagine a box," he instructs. "In your mind, you may decorate it as you like. This box is for anger and anxiety; you may put 'items' in this box that make you feel unhinged. Your emotions are safe there, you may take out and put in as you please, Mrs. Stephenson,” he stopped with mechanic precision, addressing me formally and giving me the emotional space needed to hear what he has to say.

I know he can feel me boiling within the confines of my skin, ready to retort my opinion. Knowing damn well how I feel about inefficient mental labor and the sacred space that is my mind.

I stopped myself, remembering to breathe so that I may process. Mentally hugging myself, as he instructed me years ago. Giving myself the nourishment my emotionally unattached mother and toxically masculine father refused to give me as I grew. I don’t want to shut Dr. Roy down, so I breathe, releasing rigidness.

“I am not a cold monster, I am love” is my inner mantra to combat years of believing the bullshit, fed to me by my caregivers.

"I am not anger," I coach myself.

I coaxed myself from the dis-ease of a box that wasn’t even real; I wanted to give his advice consideration. I validated my emotions and forgave myself, and the want to lash out, faded.

He coughed.

I open my eyes, surprised to see that the hug manifested itself on me. I didn’t dare feel embarrassed nor judged; not in this uppermost floor of his lavish skyrise. That’s just not how the good doc operated. I must have been there, suspended in time, for maybe five or so minutes, and the doctor just needed me to come back to the Now.

Finally, I nod to him, “I think I’ll try that.”

He nods his approval, and so I got comfortable, careful to not sit in a way that would hinder my pristine white dress to the confinement of a possible wrinkle; that would simply not do.

“I require a few moments of silence,” hand raised defensively, I let him know before he can begin to coax me into instruction, my “type A” persona rearing itself, unmistakably known.

“Understood,” is his quiet reply as I ready myself.

He knows to mentally meet me in a moment; I already considered his first instruction. You see, I had been born into an affluent family, wanting for nothing; I lived lavishly. Fortunately, I married a man that loves me. Not the money, my pedigree or education, but me. This sent me into a frenzy of incredible emotion, new to me and to my heart. Unable to understand the pricelessness of what I have, I verbally abused my beloved.

The first two years of marriage wore on him, trying to cope with my demands and neediness. I tried to fix it myself, but my perfectionist ways would muddle my feelings I wanted to convey to him. I knew I wanted help on expressing myself healthily, he's worth it. I couldn't go to my parents; they didn’t marry for love and thought me ungrateful for not marrying the suitors that they’d presented me with. Those men had bored me though; repulsive, unkind, typical, and stingy describes the lot of them.

My mind drifted in the plush chair; Roy’s atmosphere took me to a place when I first met Jason’s mother. I smiled outwardly, and Roy took this as que to move forward, instructing me to grab up select mental baggage and encouraged me to sift through the contents as I stored them, packaged . He told me that I can return to this box anytime something unraveled me. I heard him, but my mind’s eye is steered to my meeting of my Mother-in-law.

After nearly a year of us dating, Jason said I had to meet his Momma. I’d begrudgingly agreed, my adoration for him my only concession for considering meeting her.

I had no real connection to my mother and thought it was the norm to feel that way. So, when I met her, this ray of light, brighter than the sun, captured in brown skin, my heart had skipped. She'd opened her porch door, smile wide, elation in her eyes, and welcoming arms. She wrapped me in the warmest hug, embracing me lovingly. It darn near broke my brain, but sense told me that she was love personified; the reason why I’d fallen for her son, easily and carelessly. Jason was the only other person to invoke instant connection within me.

Southern to the bone, masculine yet nourishing and loving the simplicity in life is how I'd describe Jason. All of that mirrored in his childhood home: a spacious ranch style house, high ceilings and comfortable.

His father had come in from the side porch; friendly, barrel chested and tanned from being outside too long, he had picked me up in a bear hug. He patted my head and gushed about how I was all his son could talk about.

I cried the first night being there. The love in the beautiful home, food made by both parents. Parents who had made eye contact with us, not as punishment but to see us; wanting to know about the travel to them, because our safety mattered to them. All that realness, made me feel mechanic, out of place, and unworthy. Jason hugged me tightly after seeing asking questions was not getting to me.

The next week had been incredible, the best I’d ever had. No trip to Greenland, jewelry, or yacht party compared to water rafting, horse riding, and karaoke nights with his parents. Never in all my adolescence did I ever think that simplicity and authenticity would win me over. Accustomed to overindulgence, emplacement of what I can now name as 'neglect', I would trade all extravagance if it meant nights like those.

Though I did all those things, extravagant in nature, with Jason down our timeline, it felt less like something I could put on a social media and something I could experience, as a part of the gift of life.

I was paranoid and elated when he’d proposed at the end of our trip. Crying even harder than I had the first night we’d arrived and feeling fragile uncertainty, our future together, on the line.

We told his parents together and immediately they flushed with pleasure, clapping their merriment and embracing us. That same night, his mother brought me to the back room of the house and sat me down; he guys went into town to grab some celebration wine. She'd left the room, telling me she would be right back. I nodded my agreement and looked around the room that was obviously a playroom. Though the ceilings were high and almost gracious, the room had a playful energy.

I decided to explore, never once going back here because we’d been so busy. There was an entertainment center with a vintage videogame console with a TV, lightly covered in dust, two large racecar chairs facing that center, stationed in the farthest corner of the room: a piece of Jason’s childhood fun. A large window took up the rest of the wall. The next corner had an overstuffed chair, worn yet sturdy looking, with knitting supplies under it. I had reached the doorway and saw where the height of the boys was sketched in. I reached out, hesitant and feeling gloom settling in my heart.

Suddenly, his mother was there, embracing me as though feeling my want of, well, whatever I was witnessing. Instinctively, I knew I wanted to create whatever this was with Jason. And when we had separated from our embrace, she smiled, and she caringly wiped tears I didn’t know existed. She told me then and there that no matter what, I can contact her whenever about whatever, that no matter what happened between Jason and I, that I had a Mama in her. Feelings, matronly in nature, birthed in me, and I knew I found a lifelong friend.

She had ushered me back to our spot on the extravagant rug, and it was the first time I had noticed a box with her. She touched it, tenderly, like how you would handle a newborn, she'd begun telling me a little history of the Stephenson’s family tradition. Seven generations, this box was given their intended.

Protected by simple brown construction paper, I could see it was hand carved. Over the years the box withered, she'd explained the paper was a protectant, and she'd wanted to be able to gift the treasure properly to the next Mrs. Stephenson. Inside was some broom string from her mama’s wedding, a piece of lace from the first wife, dog-tags from another wife that lost her beloved and so on. All precious, simple, and significant.

I wish I could say that Jason and I lived happily after that, though we did and still do; I was rough on him in the beginning due to my own feelings of inadequacy. I never want to lose what I have with him, and so the night when the urge to hit him in reprimand came, I blanched, disgusted with myself and my urges. I spent months looking for a sufficient therapist, but all failed my expectations.

Then, one morning, I met Roy in passing. Exhausted, I had tripped, and as passer goers walked over me, as rush hour New Yorkers tended to do, I stayed down, unfazed and defeated.

Roy stopped and offered his hand. He’d sat me down, shared his bagel and heard me out; all things I would never had done if it had not been months of tiring search. Heart heavy because I don't want to treat Jason unfairly. My impulsive nature tore at me to over-react and overcorrect to things, I know long term, doesn't matter.

When I was all done, jokingly I told him I wished it were his job to listen to me, that he had a great listening skills. I longed to be a better wife, no, a better woman.

He'd dramatically looked at his watch, told me he, miraculously, an opening was in an hour. I could be pinned in by his assistant, just like that, my wish: granted.

So, years later, in the present moment, temper tamed and my ‘self’ more nourished, I can do simple things like take a moment to listen to Roy. Empowered to love more freely; an opportunity for stable happiness and balance.

I think of that simple box, that’s so filled with precious meaning and irreplaceable love that money could never buy, fitting to hold the emotions I so badly want to nourish into something that's beautiful. So I allow Roy to coax me into this practice, no longer skeptical and infuriated by the new concept, but appreciative of another opportunity to grow.