I like people who are damaged; people who have been broken down and torn apart. I like people who don't have it all together. Maybe it's because I like knowing that I'm not the only one who needs fixing. And maybe it's also because I like to be the one doing the fixing.
Perfect people bore me and annoy me and mostly make me want to scratch my eyes out. And, of course, I know that there is really no such thing as a perfect person. I simply just can't relate to those who have had the world handed to them on a platinum platter. And honestly, I see that as a good thing.
Granted, I know that my life is not necessarily one that would be deemed underprivileged by any reasonable standards. However, I've worked for everything that I have. Because I've had to. Because I don't want to be anyone's charity case. Because I can't stand those people who expect the world and everything brilliant in it to be delivered to them in a Tiffany's box. And because I never want to be one of them.
Anyone who has known me long enough to coax me to open up even slightly is aware of how broken a person I am at my core. I'm not going to try to hide that. I'm not one to pretend that everything is rainbows and butterflies when it isn't.
Yes, I'm probably one of the most bubbly and resilient people, maybe ever, but that's because I've been punched in the gut by defeat and disappointment and dejection. So I know when to appreciate the good times when they roll through.
But, my dark side, especially lately, has been making its presence known. And I'm smart enough and old enough to know that suppressing that part of myself is unhealthy. So here it is. Here I am.
I'm broken and beaten down. And that's okay. Because broken people are my favorite people. We're bonded by our hardships. We're kindred spirits. And we're blissful in our brokenness together.
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