Broken

Something's wrong with me.

I'll admit it. I'm not afraid to or anything. It's just the word in itself is so fragile, I fear as though I'll break it when it comes out of my mouth. But, with that word meaning what it means, I guess I don't really have to be careful saying it.

I've been broken for a while now. I mean, when your parents don't love each other anymore, your mind blurs. It doesn't mean anything to a child. "I'll get two Christmas'!" they exclaim in their high pitched voice. "More presents!" But later, the only present we get now is the absent presence of the other parent. They've built a family, moved to another state... whatever. The simple fact is that they've moved on. Told themselves they build a better life for themselves. Good for them, I guess. Not good for the parent who was left with the selfish, irresponsible toddler, kid, or teen in their midst.

Then, the anger issues start. You won't notice them at first, those swirling red thoughts. You'll think they're normal, then realize they're not. Depression will walk in, too, carrying so much luggage of past memories, even though it crowds the sacred space in our head, you'll do nothing but hold onto. It becomes a habit when you start running them through your head.

The therapy doesn't help. You're paying to rant to someone. That's it. However, if you choose to get all close and personal with them, congrats. You are the one out of the million that has the openness of an unlocked gate. For the rest of us, our tolerance for openness doesn't even pass the doorway, the gate now all shackled up.

Needless to say, I have problems. I know. There definitely is something wrong with me. Some might even say...

...that I'm broken.