I’m broken, she said to me.
She’d been talking a little about a boy who intrigued her, one who seemed intrigued by her, as well. She is a sparkly, precious girl with a quick smile and beautiful eyes that in turn can be as blue as they are green, tall and long, with this curly, long blonde hair that looks as glorious thrown up in a careless twisty bun as it does when she spends an hour fixing it. She is brilliant and funny and will graduate from college in May. To her credit, she has listened to her mother, who told her to do something she loved doing and in so doing, will have a long and bright career that won’t suck the life out of her. She is also one of the most tenacious women I know. I remember when she first went off to college, hearing about how she mastered mass transit and taxis and it took my breath away, the fierceness of this girl.
She is, in fact, one of the least broken people I know.
Why, I wondered, is she so quick to assume that SHE is the broken one. Maybe the boy is broken. Maybe no one is broken. Why doesn’t she see that sometimes the little sparks that often seem so promising to make fire just…
don’t.
Why do we do that?
I know that I am certainly guilty of taking on the responsibility of matters far out of my grasp, like the weather, which is something I have actually apologized for before.
I’m sorry it is raining.
Like, what did I think I was, God?
But to hear someone so fantastic say she was broken just…I don’t know…killed my heart and made me want to scream NO DON’T SAY THAT DON’T FEEL THAT WAY STOP IT.
Because that is how I’ve always dealt with my own feelings.
Squelch.
Not the run of the mill mad/sad/happy sort of feelings, as i generally do okay expressing those in my facebook status with a fitting emoticon tacked on, but the serious ones that need to come out…I’m hurt…I’m angry…
I’m broken.
so, instead of telling her to stop feeling that way, I said…
I don’t think you’re broken. also, aren’t we all a little broken?
What-A-Mother 