Broken

There are days that I marvel at how broken I am.  Those are the days that I revel in my many pieces and the way they always find a way to fit back together.  There is a certain amount of fulfillment that comes with understanding that being broken doesn’t mean being dysfunctional, it just means that you can function differently.  The days that I take solace in knowing the gaps in my being and sharp edges didn’t come for naught are the days I find the beauty in the imperfections.  Not only my imperfections, but the imperfections around me as well. 

Its days like those that I define myself with words like “gypsy” or “hippie” or “spirited.” Its times like that when I feel my strongest and I find the most beauty in all of those busted pieces.  That’s when I feel powerful.  Not the kind of power that governs nations or pulls the tides.  Powerful like a Joni Mitchell song.  Those times also give me meaning.  Not like the meaning of life or anything.  More like the meaning of my life.  I find a lot of comfort in being broken.  I find a lot of identity in it as well.  While we are all broken, not all of us realize that we are.  In my revelation, I have control.  In my acceptance, I have peace.  That’s how I embrace being broken. 

But there are other times.  Times when it’s not so easy to appreciate the damage.  Times when it’s cold and bitter.  Times when it’s near impossible to see the beauty in the sum of your parts. That’s when I can feel those pieces of my fractured self, weakening.  It happens every time.  I know when I’m about to break again.  I can feel myself coming apart in the fall, before I even hit the floor.  Sometimes, I being to anticipate the damage before it’s even done.  Times like this make me wish I had never been broken in the first place.  If I had never been broken, I would never know what repairing the damage entailed.  It’s a lot of fucking work.

So, at times like this, I get really tired.  And kind of pissed.  And real resentful at the entire world because, really?  Can’t you learn to be more careful with fragile shit.  If you’re a bull, steer the fuck clear of china shops.  If you keep breaking mirrors, don’t blame other people for your bad luck.  If you drop everything you hold, then please, don’t pick up my heart.  I am tired of the anticipation.  I’m tired of carrying gorilla glue in my purse.  I’m tired of emergency fixes and temporary holds.  I’m tired of hearing “you are stronger than you think you are.”  I’m tired of “Do you know what a great job you are doing?”  I’m really fucking tired of all that.  I’m tired of doing “the best I can” and making excuses for my inadequacies and hoping they are reasonable explanations for barely holding it together when I’m falling apart. 

A product of loving people is not being loved back.  Everyone knows that you can’t love all of the people all of the time.  Even more, we know that we will never be loved by all of the people even part of the time.  But when is loving people going to stop being so painful?  There will be those that we love who can’t love us back.  There will be people we love who we can’t help.  There will be people we love who don't know how to love.  Every time we love someone, we risk the fall.  Every time we fall, we have to be ready to put the pieces back together.  We have two options. Either we can stop loving or we can be prepared to put it all back together.  Again.

-Inner Peas