I am broken. I’ve always been broken.
It’s an odd sensation, realizing you’re broken when you thought you were whole. Or at least, whole enough. But there is no fixing me. Pieces of me died. Looking back it feels like they died at big huge moments and though a couple of them did, most of them slowly withered. Years of neglect and complacency from important people in my life made me hard. Made me think I was hard. Made me try to be hard, cold, in control. But I’m not. I’m alone, lonely. There is no fixing me, because I’ve been broken so long they no longer make my spare parts. There’s no going back and changing who I have become, there is only tweaking who I am and who I will be.
I break down when I think of the words my mother said not too long ago. They made me realize that I’m obviously broken. That I’m not hiding my cracks, flaws, and missing pieces as well as I thought I was. She said “I know a part of you died the day your Uncle passed away. A part of you died that day and I can see it.” I had thought I was dealing well enough. Hiding my pain well enough. I didn't want it to be on display because my pain doesn't matter. Not when my mother lost her oldest brother. Not when my grandmother lost her first born child. At the time I didn't realize how badly my grandmother was hurting. Now, I can only imagine her pain. I look at my son, almost 3 years old already, and I try to imagine what I would do. How would my life play out, if I lost him. I have to stop because I start to have a panic attack as though tomorrow he is going to be gone and my life will be even more empty.
It’s an odd sensation, realizing you’re broken when you thought you were whole. Or at least, whole enough. But there is no fixing me. Pieces of me died. Looking back it feels like they died at big huge moments and though a couple of them did, most of them slowly withered. Years of neglect and complacency from important people in my life made me hard. Made me think I was hard. Made me try to be hard, cold, in control. But I’m not. I’m alone, lonely. There is no fixing me, because I’ve been broken so long they no longer make my spare parts. There’s no going back and changing who I have become, there is only tweaking who I am and who I will be.
I break down when I think of the words my mother said not too long ago. They made me realize that I’m obviously broken. That I’m not hiding my cracks, flaws, and missing pieces as well as I thought I was. She said “I know a part of you died the day your Uncle passed away. A part of you died that day and I can see it.” I had thought I was dealing well enough. Hiding my pain well enough. I didn't want it to be on display because my pain doesn't matter. Not when my mother lost her oldest brother. Not when my grandmother lost her first born child. At the time I didn't realize how badly my grandmother was hurting. Now, I can only imagine her pain. I look at my son, almost 3 years old already, and I try to imagine what I would do. How would my life play out, if I lost him. I have to stop because I start to have a panic attack as though tomorrow he is going to be gone and my life will be even more empty.
I know it probably sounds sad to you, that my son makes my life at least semi-complete. He is the reason I get out of bed in the morning, the reason I even bother. Without him, I'd probably be gone. Not necessarily dead, just gone. He saved my life and as much as I hated his father for the pain and the struggle he created in my life, I love him a little for giving me the one thing I needed to save my life. I already know what someone who is reading this is thinking, and no it's not healthy to have that much importance on my son. Yes I realize exactly what the next thing out of your head is going to be, you're going to tell me that my savoir should have been a more all powerful being. Higher power. But who's to say it wasn't. Who's to say my son didn't come along at just the right time to save my life and pull me out of a very poor life style choice. I'll be honest, my life still isn't too great but I do what I can. I do what I have to. For my son. For the reason I am still around.
The more I think about it, the more I can see exactly where I am broken and why. And the more I see it, the more I worry I won't ever be fixed. And the more I worry I won't ever be fixed, the more I fear I will always be alone. Just my little man and me. Never to find a man to marry me, to love me, to treat my son as his own. I almost had it once, or did I? That's the thing about humanity, if it's not right here in front of us we can't tell if it's really there at all.
I think I've had enough for tonight. I think I'm going to go back upstairs, because this whole train of thought started as I watched Sweet November up in my bedroom with my son fast asleep beside me on my arm. I think I'm going to go back upstairs, curl up into a ball and see where to go from here. I may cry like a little girl, but I feel more like I'm going to find some peace. Writing usually finds me peace.
Pretty much anything I say is probably trite, but I put forth a different perspective: Our 'mind and soul' is more like the flesh that contains it, not fragile and static like a china doll or a robot (tho Astro Boy's rocket boots were pretty awesome). Chips and cracks are more like scrapes and bruises. Breaks are still breaks, though (they just suck that much, they keep the name).
ReplyDeleteLike flesh, the wounds *really* hurt and it doesn't just "go away" as you will it. It takes time and sometimes it needs some therapy to help it heal. Sometimes there's scars (or a limp).
I think we are always - all of us and everyday - a work in progress.