During my Volvo-driving-soccer-mom years (Jeep), I had locked away the 8 or so years of military, contracting, disaster response, crime, etc. away in a box, series of drawers and boxes, inside of other drawers and boxes. Shrug. Something like that. It wasn’t that I couldn’t access them, I don’t think? As I did, from time to time, with no ill effect. Need something? Reach for it. Put it away, again. It was just a rarity. Snort. Like twice a decade kind of thing. When I close chapters on my life? I tend to close them pretty dang permanently.
It wasn’t until Pandora’s box got kicked wide open and I couldn’t
stop remembering everything, all the time,

that I realized how many
good memories I’d had locked away. As those came flooding out, too.
It was one of the only reasons I was willing to do therapy, in the beginning, to not lose those parts, when I locked everything away again. As that was my entire goal when I started therapy… I wanted my compartments back! Now. Yesterday. Fix this f*cking mess.
Once in therapy… attempting to reach
any memory -good, bad, indifferent- you’d think would be pretty easy… since for the better part of 2 years that’s ALL I could think about, and I was freaking hip deep wading through this wreckage attempting to do anything. But no. They were as out of reach as if they’d been on the moon.

Can’t win for losing sometimes, I swear.