You know that.
That’s why you still remember when you were eight—how much you cried when your mom threw away the only radio you had at home. You were eight but loved music.
“Mom, why did you throw it away? It was so important to me,” you say because it was. It was the most important thing you’ve had back then, and also because it was the only thing you had.
“It was broken, honey. There’s no way to fix it,” you remember she said that because it’s true. It was broken. You needed it but it was broken. So, she threw it away.
You never recovered from that.
You’ve always had the mentality that everything that was broken needed to be thrown away so, you grew up as someone who liked fixing things because you don’t want to throw it away.
You kept on fixing things—that ranged from the dislocated eye of your favorite stuffed toy to your own home desktop computer; and people—that ranged from your troubled neighbor to your gay best friend. You fixed them, all of them, so you didn’t have to throw them away.
You grew up accustomed to the idea that you knew how to fix things and people until that one fateful day you faced the mirror, on one of the months when you were 21.
The mirror had cracks and you fathom the extent of the damage and figured that it couldn’t be fixed anymore, so you compute your budget and try to think of a day to buy a new mirror. But then, you saw yourself.
After all these years, you’re still broken.
You saw yourself with minor and major cracks, stitched together by your skin that was also hanging by threads of nerves and guts, just enough to keep you walking and keep you smiling even if your lungs or your face hurt.
You figured it wasn’t the similar cracks in the mirror; it was really you. You were more broken than the mirror but you can’t, unfortunately, buy yourself a new self because that would just be stupid. You try to see if it was fixable, if you were fixable but it was the first time you saw yourself like that—broken and fragile; ready to break if knocked by some sort of unexpected force. You weren’t like glass.
You saw yourself as a result of haunted pieces of memories put together; like the world after the Big Bang but way before people started inhabited the world. You’re broken, simply broken. And the haunted pieces of memories that tore you apart and kept you together were not the wishes that never came true; they were the ones you never made.
So, you stand there, looking at yourself because that’s what people do when they see broken things that cannot be fixed—they only look at it.
And for once, you thought, maybe, people as broken as you can be fixed.
So, you let people in. You took chances with people who promised they can fix someone as broken as you are, even without knowing the extent of the damage; and you embrace the hope that maybe they can.
Because you don’t want to be broken anymore.
So, for once in your life, you let others fix things, people.
You let them fix you.
And perhaps, broken people can also be recycled. You hope you can still be recycled.