No one loves the fragments….
Why aren’t I enough? My hazel eyes are firmly locked with my reflection in the mirror, searching for the reason why I can’t please anyone. “I have nothing to offer, I am just a broken husk of what once was a good man. No one cares enough to love the fragments.” Years after these initial thoughts in my small bathroom in my one-bedroom apartment in Colorado, I still feel the same way. Maybe it’s the Percocet, but I kind of doubt it. At times like this, I can hear the hatred from my marriage reverberating off the walls of my mind. “You are some unwanted thing.” I concur.
Earlier today I wrote about fragments of yesterday’s surgery. As I lie sprawled out on my bed, I dozed into painfilled sleep. The word “fragments” played on a loop in my mind until I got up and started to write. The first 600 words were full of bitterness and was a pity party. I deleted it. Instead, I am going to write and hopefully discover why I am obsessed with the word fragments. If an individual, a piece of pottery, or some other breakable material is not broken, you don’t have fragments. Only in a state of brokenness will fragments take shape. Life has a way of breaking us into tiny pieces.
I am not going to write about love and broken hearts.
Some individuals can put the pieces back together, I can’t. Or perhaps, I lack the will to try. There is a beauty in being broken, or fragmented. However, broken pottery or glass no longer serve a purpose when it is broken. Sure, you can glue it back together, but it will never be useable again. If you make a mistake of drinking out of a broken piece of glassware, you will most likely cut yourself. The use of the broken item is no longer feasible. This sums up my feelings on my life. I lived a good life, but when my injuries occurred, and when my disability kicked up to 100%, I lost my purpose. There is not enough glue to put me back together, I am fragmented beyond repair. Or at least it appears this way through Percocet-glazed eyes.
Brokenness reduces the value of an item. A fragment is not worth the overall price of an unbroken thing. The scars left on the broken vessel tells a story, and often the story is the broken piece was handled incorrectly, or it was perched precariously on a ledge. Either way, fragments are usually swept up and discarded like, wait for it, some unwanted thing. Fragmented pieces no longer possess the ability to handle pressure, when pressure is applied it breaks again along the same cracks it already has. Thus, it is discarded and replaced.
Sometimes we keep pieces which are cracked, but only to remind us of the past. “This one time at a garage sale…” or “Back when we were together…” often makes us hold on to things we are better off forgetting. In my cabin hangs a cuckoo clock from the Black Forest in Germany. It is the only thing I kept from my divorce. It reminds me of a snow filled day in Rothenberg, Germany as I pushed my children through this town for the last time. I had just returned from Iraq, and my family and I were in the process of moving back to the United States. It was the beginning of the end of my marriage, and yet, I hold on to it. Call me sentimental or stupid, but the memory attached to it is powerful. My marriage of course was dashed upon the rocks and discarded like some unwanted thing, but I hold on to a fragment of what used to be.
No one loves the fragments….
Perhaps, there is no rhyme or reason as to why the word fragments played over and over in my mind. Maybe, it is the drug addled mist that covers the pain touching the fragments of darkness in my heart that has caused me to write this piece. Either way, I am done writing about it. It is almost one in the morning here, time to change the tint on my perspective.
24 August 2019