When I was a child, someone broke me.

I have written about it before, but I don’t talk about it very often. Actually, hardly ever. Perhaps it’s because I didn’t want anyone to know that I was broken?

I was too young to know I was being broken. As I grew, I saw the fractures in my frame as a part of me. They had been there as long as I could remember. And since they had always been there I figured I was supposed to be broken. And each time a wound would begin to close, a bone would begin to mend; I found a way to break myself again. I did this over and over. And I let other people break me. Over and over. By the time I realized what I was doing it was too late to ever be whole.

And I wanted to be whole. Like everyone else was?

I had a very thick layer of skin, but just under the surface I was a million shattered pieces. Fragmented, but whole. And I lived with the constant fear that at any moment, some experience, some person, some thing would pierce the skin, and all of those pieces would pour out.  Violently spinning around like a tornado, picking up other people and entire trailer parks along the way. I would be left there to sift through the debris, searching for myself.  Attempting to put me back together again.

You see, this is why I never talk about it. I start to wax poetic and it starts to sound pathetic and sad.  But it’s really not.  Not at all!

Yesterday, a friend posted an article about a Hindu Goddess named Akhilandeshvari.       Her name means “Never Not Broken”.  It’s sort of like “Always Broken”, but more dramatic, I think.

Her personality has been described like the light shining off of a many faceted gem. Inside of the stone there are rays of light reflecting and refracting, bouncing off of every surface in every possible direction. There is a thick layer on the outside that shines one bright light, but a million pieces of light inside.  Fragmented, but whole.

She rides down the river on a crocodile.  She not only goes with the flow, which is a trait I admire, but while she flows she knows that at any moment she may be spun around violently, like a tornado. By the very thing that she chooses to ride!

She’s broken into a million pieces on the inside and riding a crazy unpredictable reptile, (which I have decided to name ‘Fear’), and I love her! Because she tells me that it is all right to be never not broken. (And she pardons my grammar).

In fact, I should break myself. I should spin things around and shake things up. I should not get settled into the illusion of a routine, day after day, doing the same things. I should pull myself apart on purpose and break the cycle. Whatever cycle I happen to be in right now. Deciding to break myself apart and putting myself back together over and over again, so that I never become complacent.  Unafraid of what might happen next, moving down the river with Fear at my feet.

I can try my best to go with the flow, but I have to know that at any moment the crocodile could start spinning. I could go over rapids, or get beached. I could get sick or lose a job. Something amazing and wonderful could happen.  My heart could be broken. I could find a new passion. Someone I love could die.

I will fall apart, come together, fall apart, come together, fall apart, and come together again. There is enough room under my skin for it to keep happening.

It will keep happening. And the pieces will never come together perfectly.

I will never be not broken. I have always been never not broken.

And I shine like a diamond.   I shine.