Broken Person

Silent tears fall down my cheeks. I force them to stop.
I have cried enough lately.
I look around. All I see is ruined.
Like me, it all fell down this hole and hit the ground hard.
I sort through the shattered fragments of minds, lives, bodies, trying to figure out what is mine.
There are other people down here, with their own wreckage.
Sometimes I think I see someone I recognize and I try to reach out, talk to them.
Maybe we can help each other climb out of this prison.
If nothing else, we can commiserate and maybe, as a result, feel less alone.
But whenever I reach out they pull away from me.
Either they don't want to see me, or they don't want me to see them.
So I sit and watch the people silently.
Sometimes I look up and watch the people who live above.
The people that are whole, happy and healthy.
Some of them urge me to start climbing out of this pit and join them.
At first, it seemed impossible. But then I slowly started to climb.
I took whatever I had that was salvageable, whatever was left relatively whole, and used it.
They helped. But now I face a new challenge.
I see that I can escape this pit, but I do not know that I want to.
I feel like some part of me belongs down there.
I feel like I am, and will always be, a broken person.
Even now, when I am much closer to reaching the bright, happy world of the whole
I remember how good it felt to fling myself into the abyss.
I long to let go, cut all the support lines, and again feel the exhilaration of the long fall.
I want to break myself again.