Container Box Mash - Cost Analysis Part II

It’s this weight, isn’t it? This dull, constant ache in the chest, a sort of background hum of unease that never quite fades. You wake up with it, you carry it through the day, you lie down with it, and sometimes, it’s the last conscious thought before sleep finally pulls you under. Life, they say, is a journey. But often, it feels more like a sarcastic remark, a cruel joke played on souls desperate for lightness. A crushing weight, indeed.

The boxes. Oh, the endless, suffocating boxes. They’re everywhere, aren’t they? From the moment we’re tiny, they start. Boy. Girl. Smart. Athletic. Artistic. Quiet. Loud. And we, so eager to please, so desperate to belong, we try to squeeze ourselves in. We bend, we twist, we contort our very essence, all to fit neatly within the pre-assigned dimensions. If the box says ‘successful,’ then we chase the external markers of success, even if our spirit screams for something else entirely. If the box says ‘strong,’ we choke back the tears, swallow the pain, project an impenetrable facade, even as we crumble from within. And if a label doesn't quite fit, well, then we’re a problem, aren’t we? A misfit, an anomaly, something to be fixed or, worse, ignored.

Stereotypes, they cling like burrs, prickly and unseen, until you realize they’ve become part of your skin. It’s not just what others say, it’s the insidious way they creep into our own self-talk. “People like me don’t do that.” “I’m not the type for…” “They’ll never understand, so why bother?” This self-imposed stigma, built on years of external judgment, it’s a cage with an open door, yet we remain trapped, convinced the bars are real, unbreakable. The fear of being seen, truly seen, for all our messy, glorious, imperfect selves, it’s paralyzing.

And so, we walk on eggshells. Always. Every conversation, every interaction, a delicate dance across a perilous minefield. Will they approve? Will I say the wrong thing? Will I disappoint? The vigilance is exhausting, a constant energy drain. We become chameleons, changing our colors, our opinions, our very personality to match the dominant shade in the room. A different mask for every audience. A performer, constantly on stage, terrified of the curtain falling, revealing the raw, unpolished, unapproved self beneath. This people-pleasing, it’s a slow suicide of the spirit. Each small compromise, each silent capitulation, chips away at who we are, until we can barely recognize the stranger staring back from the mirror.

The need. It’s a primal thing, this craving for connection, for acceptance. But it twists, doesn’t it? It morphs into dependency, a desperate tether to others for our sense of worth. If they’re happy with us, then we’re good. If they’re not, then we’re worthless. We outsource our entire self-esteem to the fickle opinions of others which is really based in their own needs. And then, co-dependency blooms, a tangled vine where our happiness is inextricably linked to theirs, our peace dependent on their mood, our very existence defined by our utility to them. It’s a suffocating embrace, where boundaries blur, and self-sacrifice becomes a twisted badge of honour. We become addicts, hooked on external validation, chasing the fleeting high of someone else’s approval, even as it leaves us empty, depleted.

And what happens inside this self-made prison? Oh, the things we don’t share. The whispered hopes, the secret fears, the raging passions. They become locked away, buried deep beneath layers of ‘should’ and ‘must’ and ‘what will they think?’ The thoughts we edit, the feelings we suppress, the truths we bite back, they don’t just vanish  no, they fester. They turn inward, becoming a toxic sludge that poisons the wellspring of our being. It’s no wonder we’re low energy. Every forced smile, every swallowed word, every act of self-betrayal costs us. It costs us our vitality, our joy, our very life force.

We become ill, don't we? Not always in ways that show up on a lab test, but in the pervasive tiredness, the brain fog, the inexplicable aches, the creeping anxiety, the sudden bursts of anger that feel utterly alien. Our bodies, wise and honest, are screaming what our mouths dare not speak. They are the silent witnesses to our suppression, bearing the brunt of the emotional weight we refuse to release. And the dreams? Oh, the dreams! The wild, vibrant, impossible dreams we once held, they become whispers in the night, haunting faint echoes, then nothing. We let them slide, year after year, convincing ourselves they were childish, impractical, selfish. And with each dream that slips away, we sink a little deeper into the shadows, the vibrant colours of life dimming, until we become distant, even from ourselves. Disconnected. A phantom limb of who we once were, or who we could have been.

A sarcastic journey, indeed. This constant striving for an ill-defined 'perfection' that only exists in the minds of others. This endless performance. This quiet desperation. It gnaws at the soul, leaving us hollowed out, aching for something we can’t quite name.

But what if… what if there was another way? A way out of the boxes, off the eggshells, out of the shadows? This whisper, it grows louder sometimes, a tiny rebellious spark. If only we could just say what we mean. Not the filtered, polished, approved version, but the raw, unedited truth bubbling up from within. If only we could mean what we say, align our words with our intentions, our actions with our values. If only we could speak our truth, not with aggression, but with clarity and conviction, owning our experience, our feelings.

Right, so my inner wild beast, the one that desperately wants to sculpt bread dough into mythical creatures while wearing a sarong...it’s been sedated, heavily, and drugged with something anxiety-inducing. With sensible shoes. And a strict diet of 'what would the neighbours think?' "What would it mean if?". You’d think the person closest to you, the one you picked, the one you hoped would embrace your full, unhinged glory, would be the first to get a front-row seat to the bread-sculpting sarong-wearing spectacle. Nope! They’re often the last; it’s safer to just binge-watch some reality show where other people live out their wacky dreams. ‘Go on, Brenda from Ohio, you tell him you want to run a llama farm!’ meanwhile, my own llama-farm-adjacent desires shrivel and or cower. And then we wonder why we feel… less. Like a deflated party balloon. Is this vitality? No, just a slow, creeping realization that the biggest fantasy you’re living is the one where you actually get eight hours of sleep? Sigh.

Our feelings! Imagine acknowledging them, truly feeling them, without judgment or shame. The anger, the sadness, the joy, the fear, all of it. To simply allow them to exist, to flow through us, rather than damming them up until they burst or stagnate. Sharing exactly...in the raw, what is in its in the moment; whether the kitchen, the bedroom or board room. It’s a radical thought, almost terrifying in its simplicity. To be so utterly, unapologetically ourselves. What fucking bliss! Goodbye weight I hold, goodbye cronic fatigue, fibromyalgia

or cancer. And the circle of community you would form in this state?...immaculate and real.

And then, this feeling, this profound knowing, starts to settle, that joy… it isn’t found in the future, when all the boxes are ticked and everyone approves. It’s not in the past, a nostalgic longing for a time when things were simpler, or perhaps just less consciously burdensome. No. Joy lives in the present. It’s in the quiet hum of the refrigerator, the warmth of a mug in your hands, the sound of rain on the roof, the unexpected genuine smile from a stranger. It’s in the feeling of breath moving through your body, the incredible miracle of being alive, right here, right now, imperfectly perfect, flawed and loving it, laughing at the learning curve.

This moment, this single, glorious, fleeting moment, it is all we truly have. And in this moment, there is a profound power. The power to choose. To choose to step off the stage. To choose to stop performing. To choose to dismantle the boxes, one by one, boxes take up space you know. To choose to plant our feet firmly on solid ground, even if it wobbles a bit at first.

Expression, not just a word, it’s a lifeline, no, its a life force. It’s the very act of releasing, of making visible the invisible, of putting motion to energy within us. To write, to speak, to sing, to paint, to dance, to simply be silent but honest in your presence. To let the soul breathe. To let the truth emerge. It’s healing! It's expansive! It’s the antidote to the poison we’ve been unwittingly drinking. Every authentic word spoken, every genuine tear shed, every creative impulse acted upon, every boundary asserted, it’s a stitch in the torn fabric of our being. It’s a brick in the foundation of ourselves, solid and true.

And the lack of it? That’s what’s killing us. The quiet suppression, the slow erosion of self, the internal scream that never gets out. It’s a slow death by a thousand silent cuts.

So, maybe the journey isn’t sarcastic after all. Maybe it’s just been waiting for us to stop fighting it, to stop trying to force ourselves into shapes we were never meant to be. Maybe it’s been waiting for us to choose honesty over ease, authenticity over approval. Maybe the true journey begins when we finally, bravely, utterly, decide to speak, to feel, to be. To peel away the labels, to smash the boxes, to walk barefoot, unafraid, on the scattered fragments of those broken eggshells. To step out of the shadows and into the blinding, messy, beautiful light of who we truly are. Because there, in that truth, in that messy authenticity, that’s where life truly begins to flourish. That’s where joy finally finds its home. And that’s where we finally, truly, begin to heal. Freedom is not some lush finish line with a mai tai and white sand, it is embracing the ride, screaming, laughing, crying, vomiting, loving and all such things. Where bliss meets living and energy is infinite.

By Daniel McMath