The pieces are scattered around. They are all pretty tiny, some only dust, like glass shattering from a great height on tile floor. No one can see them, but they are there, hidden deep within her heart. Bandaged together with princess band-aids. Hastily sewn back together with black ribbon. Taped here and super glued there because her daddy taught her that if duct tape and super glue can’t fix it, nothing can and even their powers are being strained. How many times can something be broken and put back together before it is a lost cause?
It’s been a good week. I can’t believe it’s only been a week. I’ve been productive, energetic, and happy. Did I just say that? because that doesn’t sound like me. I barely remember the pain I just went through. Maybe my new meds are finally kicking in. Maybe my miracle is happening. But as I sit here on Saturday night, 4th of July, alone, listening to fireworks by myself, I start to think–a very dangerous habit to start.
I think back to that pain I felt just 1-2 weeks ago. The pain a Christian man put me through. The pain I let him put me through because I chose to trust him. And I start to feel hollow inside. I don’t feel that pain again. I feel hollow as though something has been removed, ripped from me. Perhaps it’s my ability to trust or maybe it’s my ability to hope that is gone.
How do I start again?
Is there enough of me left to start again?
The pieces beg to be left alone. They weep as they drag their jagged jigsaw selves to their mate hoping to become whole again. Some lie still having never mended from relationships, lies, and brokenness 6 month, 2 years, even 5 years ago. They beg for peace. But the whispers of Hope that remain make it difficult to grant their wish, but Hope is growing ghostly faint and her whispers are becoming hard to hear.
I think back to my Christian cop and how he strung me along like a puppet as he pursued another, and I am nauseated by fear. Are all men that conceited and deceitful? Do all men think so little of women? Some of the pieces of my heart know that’s not true, but those pieces are the ones that have turned to dust having been broken one to many times.
Recently I was diagnosed with bi-polar. It’s hard for me to truly understand what that means, maybe because I have just been living with it. But I think I may be starting to understand (or I may be full of shit and making crap up):
I love men. I always have. I love the way they look (hell, I’m the girl who wrote an entire academic paper justifying a woman’s right to objectify men because God knows I do it allllllll the time). I love everything about them even when I say “boys are stupid.” Some days this reality about me makes me happy and positive and flirty. And then it moment, like a switch has been flipped (forgive the cliche), I remember I’m broken, and it was the men I love so much who did this to me, and I’m reduced to a puddle of anxiety and tears. Is that my bi-polar, because I’m broken, or am I just bat-shit crazy (or are they different ways of saying the same thing)?
The fear is great. It’s greater still because I know I’m not ready give up just yet. Oh God, how much easier it would be to give up. Quite honestly, I almost wish I had the courage or smarts to give up–the sorrow I would save myself.
Hope struggles against the machinations of the thousands of tiny pieces. They cut her and try to break her as they were broke; they try to silence her with their black ribbons, but she’s determined to prevail. She’s determined but so are they. It’s a daily battle, and to be perfectly honest, there’s no telling who will win–Hope or Brokenness.