The Sandbox

Amnesia, Art, Healing



4:21 AM



Each morning I do the work I feel I am supposed to do; I go through each grade in grammar school and try to remember. But every time I come up mostly empty. The path is closed, clarity withheld, and I’m left only with chaotic weather inside, feelings from nowhere, attached to nothing.


Awake at 4 AM, perplexed and frustrated with the process, I scream into my thick black blanket: Doesn’t every single person deserve to know who they are and what happened to them?


The blanket then answers me back: Of course they do.


So blanket why don’t you tell me, please? I am so tired of guessing, of coaxing Parts out, of tiny bits of shards and grains of sand. Can someone please please tell me more?


What do you want to know?


Am I making mountains out of molehills?


Mountains out of molehills. What a thing for a therapist to say, don’t you think? Blanket says no, no molehills here. 


Can you be more specific?


I am a blanket, thick, black. I drape over mountains and peaks of pain. I serve to cover, to keep warm, to protect. 


By covering you are not allowing me to heal. 


I am allowing you to live. I saved and save you. 


But I don’t need saving anymore. I am safe. 


No, you’re not. 


Yes, I am. 


Oh, no, you’re not. I will help you be the judge of safe. 




You must learn to rest and know that, in due time, I will let a little sunlight in — here and there. 


How do I relax into this?


You don’t. This process is not relaxing. This is no day at the spa. 


Can you tell me why I have bad memories of my grandmother and her costume jewelry? Can you look underneath and tell me I’m not crazy?


I can tell you you’re not crazy. 




I can tell you that you were hurt and severely scared at your grandmother’s. And that you were not helped by her. It was her backyard where you nearly lost your life — the first time anyway. Grain was there, her nose shoved into the dry summer grass. No one helped little Grain. Your Grandmother, in fact, called her a baby. She was not nice to you, this woman. Her costume jewelry is remembered in the haze of you facing your own mortality. 




During your entire childhood you went mostly unobserved and unprotected. Amnesia was the only thing available, and your mind, thirsty and desperate for protection, grabbed this tool and it drank. 


How do I heal?




What does that mean?


Allow what is happening to happen. Allow this Sandbox to grow, to be everything it needs to be. Every morning when you tap tap tap out “authenticity,” you are healing. Be patient, for the road is long and more windy than you could ever imagine. 


Thanks, Blanket. 




Will I see you again?


You have been scared of Monkey disappearing, ThereThere, too. But neither appear to be going anywhere. This is my way of saying that the chances of me showing up again are pretty good. Once discovered, we tend to reappear. Especially if we seem to move things along and provide assistance to you in new ways. 


Thank you so much for protecting me. The Mean Team tends to protect me, but they berate me. 


Oh, those guys. Yes, I cover their terrain, too. I hope to see you again. 


Me too, Blanket.