I’m full of scars. One above my eyebrow from when I had chicken pox, the scars on my knees from the thousands of falls I had between 5-10 years old, the one on my ankle from when I fell off an electronic bull. As well as a lot of other scars you can’t see. At least you can’t feel them, sometimes the circumstance is right to show someone one of these internal scars.
We all come from imperfect environments. But there is a difference from imperfect and dysfunction. It took me a long time to realize that dysfunction was not the norm. It’s been even harder to unlearn dysfunction. Things that may come natural to others on what’s the right way to do things, I have to learn. Things like effective communication, building relationships, nurturing parenting, balancing priorities, finding ways to be the calm in the midst of a hurricane. And I’m still learning.
Maybe that’s why I am quiet more than I speak up. I observe. I take in my environment and look to adapt into it. I have to learn from others on what’s the right way to act because left to my own devices I can cause mayhem.
My scars are exactly that. Permanent proof of a past experience that hurt. Some scars are bigger than others. But they’re all reminders. Some scars may fade, and some may stretch bigger. I wear my broken on my sleeve.
But broken can be beautiful too. When you raise above from that place. Like a phoenix, rising from ashes, a broken spirit is an inspiration once it finds it’s willing to fight. That’s what I’m look for here. I am tired of feeling broken. I just want to feel alive.
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