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by Starla Wynn about a year ago in recovery
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A broken train of thought

I'm broken. Well, maybe not broken. Broken implies that at some point I was whole. I feel more like I've never been assembled. Just a jumble of pieces that I think should probably go together somehow. But I don't have instructions. And I don't know what I'm supposed to be making.

I definitely feel like I'm missing some pieces. Okay, a lot of pieces. I know I keep dropping them. Often, I forget to pick them up again. Or I pick up the wrong ones. Or, at least, different ones. It's hard to tell if they're wrong when you don't have anything to compare them to.

Sometimes, I try to sort my pieces, arranging them into neat little boxes so they're easier to carry. But they don't always fit nicely into the boxes. Or I drop an entire box at a time and I am left suddenly feeling hollow.

Once in a while, I put a few pieces together and I think I get a glimpse of what I'm supposed to be. But then I drop a piece. Or I pick up one that doesn't fit anywhere at all. And I feel lost again.

Mostly, I'm so busy trying to hold all my pieces that I don't notice those around me. I am responsible for all of my pieces, and a large chunk of another's as well. It's hard to look up sometimes. Occasionally, I feel like someone else's piece fits well with one of mine. But I don't know what to do about it. Desperately, I watch as others build bridges and networks between themselves, exchanging pieces back and forth. But whenever I try this myself, it all comes crumbling down again and I can't make the pieces stay together. I am left alone with my million little pieces.

And I wonder. Why? Why can't I put the pieces together? Did everyone else come pre-assembled? Or maybe they have manuals or a picture of what they are making. Maybe I dropped mine somewhere, that piece that was supposed to be my guide. What if I didn't come with one? Do I just carry all of my pieces around forever? Will I never be whole?

I've heard that we're all a little broken. A piece or two missing, or an extra that just doesn't fit anywhere. But I have so many, many pieces, both too many and too few. I've heard that there is one who is supposed to be able to mould all the pieces together into something beautiful. I've cried out again and again but there are just as many pieces as ever, I think. It's hard to tell if there's a trail of debris behind me.

I keep hoping that one day I will look down and the pieces will be whole. But until then, I'll just keep fitting them together, one at a time. Even if I have to start fresh every day.


About the author

Starla Wynn

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