Not broken, simply unfinished

Why I decided to write

Photo by Taylor Wright on Unsplash

I began this post — my first — intending to say that I was broken. That this was something that I’ve been wanting to say for a while now and that I’ve slowly had to come to grips with my entire life (but especially since the lock-downs). And that I am, and have been, broken in so many ways that I don’t even know where to begin and frankly don’t care anymore.

I mean, who cares whether I was born second-last, the so-called “middle child”, emotionally ignored, rejected, and therefore last in the pecking order. Or that I was an effeminate boy, with a rhotic speech impediment (i.e., couldn’t say my Rs), teased on the playground since I-don’t-know-when. Why is it important for you to know that I wanted to be a girl every Hallowe’en or spent my entire childhood and a good part of my adulthood trying my best to avoid ever having to say my own goddamn name: “Bwww-uce!”

I was going to say that regardless of the who, what, or when — that I was done with being broken. Done with it being ‘The Thing’ that defines me and haunts me with endless questions of ‘What if’. Done until the news came:

I am sorry to say that my love passed away this morning. Her brother and sister were with us and Jessa was not in pain. But my heart is broken.

I am going to take a couple of days to come to…