The Fixer

When I was a little girl I learned to be a fixer.  It wasn’t by choice but by necessity.  My life was filled with broken relationships, broken promises, broken people.  At a very early age I realized that being broken meant being weak and there wasn’t a lot of gray area in between.    I wasn’t sure which came first, the weakness or the brokenness, I only knew they were inevitably intertwined.  And so now, many years and scars later, I find it an impossible task to feel whole.  I immerse myself in my work, partly due to passion, sometimes due to the fear of remaining still.  When the movement of the day slows, the voices and noises of life fade off into the distance, only the noise inside my head remains.  Thoughts swirling inside my head, gaining speed with every moment that passes until I stand on the brink of a storm no shelter could protect me from.  The weight of accountability bearing down on my shoulders, cementing in place the two things that could carry me away from imminent destruction – my feet.

And so I stand still with a weighted blanket of fear wrapped around me.  The ever unanswered question ringing in my ears, “How will I fix this?”