Box Set

Jayne and I had decided to blow off work and talk about men in a way we never would have done when we were younger and more responsible.  (Actually, our bosses had pre-approved the vacation time if not the conversation, but I like to think that after sensible teenage and young adult years, we still have a chance of turning into carefree middle aged rebels.)  Jayne was sharing with me the surprise some people had expressed when they learned she was getting divorced and how that had opened her eyes to the compartmentalization in her life; in this case, that her marriage had been slowly deteriorating but she didn't talk about this with anyone - even close friends.

I asked Jayne how many "boxes" she had.  

"5 - 1 for work, 1 for family, 1 specifically for my ex, 1 for Christian friends, and 1 for non-Christan friends."

As she finished, I saw myself 6 months ago.  

I was having morning coffee with a friend and my phone beeped its daily 9 am reminder.  My friend asked what the notification was for, but I couldn't tell him.  I say "couldn't" not "wouldn't";  "wouldn't" implies some sort of decision making process, and in this case, my obvious defensive refusal to tell was a reflex that surprised even me.  Not content just to remember, my imagination embellished the story, and I could picture my friend walking, without any idea of danger, face first into the cardboard wall of my internal shoe box labelled "Nice non-Christian people".  

Obvious confusion followed. In real life the question he asked was "why won't you tell me?" In my imagination this was followed by "How did I end up in this box? Why? What's on the outside? Please, can I get out now?"  My friend repeated his question later in the conversation, persistent, I suppose, because of my reactionary response. "What's your reminder for?"  By that point I'd processed the ridiculousness of my first answer and told him without hesitation.  

"It reminds me to pray for certain people every morning."  

"Why couldn't you tell me that?"  

Again, I answered truthfully, "I have no idea."

And 6 months later, Jayne gave me the answer: boxes in my head separating everyone I know and determining what is safe to say to whom.  Upon closer examination, it seems unnecessary.  None of my non-religious friends would be surprised to find out that I pray every morning or that my phone reminds me to do so.  Nor would they be inclined to harass me about the fact or about any of my other beliefs.  But then, how much do they know about what I believe, given my ingrained reluctance to say anything at all about it?  My long wandering examinations of my faith are reserved for people in an entirely different box who may (or may not!) be surprised to find out other things about my behavior and my beliefs.

As so often happens, when one question is answered, others arise.  Jayne and I began to ask ourselves and each other: Where and when did we start sorting people into these boxes? How have they affected our relationships to this point? What is the difference between healthy boundaries and impenetrable defensive walls? What are we hiding from?  What would happen if we could get rid of our boxes and be the same person with everyone we know?  Would that be safe?  

And if we wanted to try it, how would we start?