I write so much about being broken, as if I know what it means. But if I don’t know what whole is, how can I know broken?
I know I don’t want to be fixed, I wear my jagged edges with some degree of pride. They represent all the battles I’ve won, even the ones I didn’t realize were battles at the time.
Each one of my scars, inside and out represent something I survived, physically, emotionally, and mentally. Every one of my nightmares represent a demon that couldn’t take me in life, so they had to settle for getting me in my dreams.
These writings of mine, these poems, prose and musings, they aren’t cries for help. They are abstract trophies. They are reminders of what I’ve survived, and if needed, what I can still survive.
So when I read or hear others words here or on Twitter, I don’t see the scars, I see past then to the strength that survived them.
Maybe we are broken, maybe we are some definition of whole, I don’t know. But I do know that we have survived.