Claudette Martinez

Updated: May 28, 2019



“I’ve been broken. Shattered into a billion tiny shards scattered about my feet. Panic hits me OMG, I’m broken, I have to fix this! I grab a handful of shards, I close my eyes and work through the pain. My hands are shaking, I breath and the tears start to fall. I try to fit them as best I can. Some are missing for sure, the edges are jagged and razor sharp. They cut as I move, the blood makes them slippery and hard to manoeuvre. It’s slow going but I force them in place. I begin with the largest first, seems logical. I know where they go...don't I? I close my eyes and reach for the picture of the me before she was taken, trying to convince myself that I know who I was. I mean who knows me better than me right? Who is more qualified than me to fix me, right? Wrong. I continue to build. I realise, as I carefully place pieces, my surface is no longer glossy and smooth. If you run your fingers across they will catch on the sharp peaks and valleys where the pieces meet, slicing the tips as you feel your way. Never again will I be touched without damage. There are dull spots and cracks and in some areas I can see clear through. The image is forever altered the picture slightly skewed as if under water. If you take a few steps back you can tell its supposed to be me only this is a grief stricken scarred version. I will be put back together. Me, only a different me, fatally flawed and way more fragile, but still me, less a few key pieces.”

#PanicAttacks #Anxiety #SelfHarm #Recovery

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