I write for many reasons. The idea of this blog in particular was to write to break moulds. To write about people breaking moulds, and the experience of breaking them.
But what happens when we are the ones who get broken instead?
“All my favourite people are broken.” So goes the words of an amazing song that has seemed to be the soundtrack of my life for the past half a year or maybe more. About the amount of time since I last managed a post here.
I guess you could say I’ve had a kind of writer’s block. Not the kind where you stare at the blank page wondering where all your brilliant ideas went, but rather the kind where your heart refuses to let you anywhere near a blank page. Because who knows what might come out.
So long story short, here’s what came out: I’ve spent so much time and energy trying to help pick up the broken pieces of others around me that I failed to notice I was also falling apart.
Lately I’ve avoided writing because I’ve been avoiding my own brokenness – if I didn’t give it words, maybe it would just fix itself. But it won’t.
So here I am:
With regrets I never wanted to have,
With problems I can’t fix no matter how hard I try,
With people I can’t heal no matter how much I love.
So I need to write, more so now than ever. Writing helps me figure out how to put the pieces back together. Even if they won’t go back the way they were. Maybe what I’ll get is something new, something better.
Because you know what I’ve learned about observing the broken people around me? People who’ve been broken into the most pieces often seem to have the most to give. It’s as if, among the broken pieces, they’ve found that piece of life that people who’ve “got it together” are missing.
“All my favourite people are broken,” and in spite of that, or perhaps because of it, I seem to be in pretty great company.