The Sandbox

Amnesia, Art, Healing




I wrote to a woman who runs a podcast by, for and about survivors. 

But I see now I’m scared to tell my story to strangers. 

Or something is going on. 

The churn in the middle of the night was to walk away from all of this—this Sandbox—this daylighting effort—the therapy and…




See what is there.  See what is left of my life. 

I reached back in my mind and realized that this all started after I finished the work of saving the park. I did not know what to do with my life—I had changed—couldn’t get back to my regularly scheduled program—it was gone. 

And within two weeks or less I was triggered by "S."

And the rest? 

It’s 7390 pages of history. 

I guess the truth is I can’y go back to where I was—wherever I was before all this is gone. Gone before I even began as I had changed so much after the park experience. 

I feel scared to be somewhat beholden and identified with this effort even though very few people know. I guess I’m scared to feel like I have nothing but this effort. That I’ve somehow painted myself into a corner. 

It felt clear last night as I woke with churn—this fear of my Sandbox—of being too tied up in it, too dedicated to it. 

It’s not there as much now. 


It would make sense that fear would increase as we surface. 


I suppose. 


Anything else?


Lots of PTSDish feelings yesterday; towards the end of my run I felt trapped, a caged animal jumping, clawing, reaching toward a small window for escape. This, I see as me, and my Sandbox work, desperately somehow trying to be seen, heard, released. 

This is me trying to see who I am by getting some sun onto my face. 

This is also me, very young, in a closet, trapped. I feel myself trapped as I run, knowing completely this is not me now, but I can’t seem to shake the feeling in my gut. 

I try looking up, focusing on my surroundings, shifting internally any way I can but…I can’t. 

When I got back from my run I decide to reach out to a person who does the podcast. I am scraping, clawing, desperate. 

I can’t stop. 

It all hurts. It doesn’t feel great, I feel like I have no life, I feel like my life has become focused on this healing but aside from that, I feel like I have no life. Just this work really. 

And if I drop it I have nothing. 

I know this isn’t factually true but deep down inside it kind of is. 

I’ve put all my eggs into the Sandbox. 

And I’m scared. 


Allow, allow, allow. 


I keep envisioning the lives—the full lives—of friends who are not hamstrung, clawing in the dark. 


We are living more than we ever have. It is fear, S, only fear that makes us feel this way. 


I have lost my Sandbox confidence. 




I don’t like this campaign I am running to promote the Sandbox. I think I should turn it off and see what happens. 


Why not give it another day?


It just makes me feel shitty. I’m paying people to come to my party. 


That makes sense. 


I wonder how it would feel to turn the faucet off and see what the truth is—what the silence feels like. 

I’m paying for…what?

To give myself something to do? Logs to check? Something to look forward to?

Who am I kidding?


Breathe, S. We can turn off the campaign right now if you feel this would help. 


I can see exactly how to pause it. 


How does it feel to hit this button?


Dunno. Probably just what I said. If I do I will see how no one is visiting. I will lose hope of daylighting. 


The campaign gives us hope?


I think so. And that, A, is pitiful. 


It is hope that helped us to survive. And it is hope that will move us along towards magnificent views along this mountain that we climb. 


Thanks A. I feel shitty but I’ll keep it going. At least until I get back from the pool.