extra crispy extra broken

Sometimes things that are extra are good, sometimes not so much.  For example, I hear that extra crispy chicken is really good. I’m not much of a fried chicken person, so I’ll defer to those that like fried chicken.  But I digress. In clothing, size extra-large, not so good, in other things, extra-large (chicka-bow-wow) might be good. I said might, lol.  In my case, extra broken, not good at all.

I always knew I was different. When I was little, I always felt different. (It could be the socio thing, not sure.) I did not know if I was different good or different bad, little kids can’t always judge if something is good or bad, they just don’t know enough. But I knew I was different.

Kids are mean. If they see that you are different, they pick on you. As a kid I was picked on a lot. I was tiny, short and very small for my age.  People always thought I was much younger than I was.  It was a bad different.  But I was smart, detail oriented and tried really, really hard.  I thought it was a good different, but remember kids are mean.

I know I’m broken; most people are.  We are all broken in different ways and we all try our best to get on with life in spite of our broken-ness. We are all so busy thinking that everyone sees how broken we are that we cannot fix the broken. How do we move on?  How do I move on? Am I extra (in a bad way) broken?

Until recently, I knew  I was regular broken, if that is a thing. I was comfortable with the regular broken me. I used to think everyone else lived great lives and I wanted to live that great life too. But now that I know that everyone is broken in one way or another, I feel less different. Different lives, different problems, different baggage, not necessarily good or bad, just different but somehow the same.

So, let’s get to the extra part.  Being socio is fine for me.  I take my emotions and I put them in a box, sometimes multiple boxes when needed.  I open the boxes on my own time, in my own way, alone, where no one else gets to view them. It’s not a show, for someone else’s pleasure.  Other people wear their broken and their emotions on their sleeve, it’s not good or bad, it’s just what works for them. I don’t judge it.

Lately, I feel extra broken.  Those big feelings that I’ve locked up in boxes (so, so many, many boxes) keep escaping.  At the worst possible times, I find boxes open, scattered on the floor, feelings running amuck and I can’t catch them. In public places, when random words are spoken, in front of strangers, no one that I know, no one that might care about me, suddenly there is a rush of emotion. I can hear the box opening, it’s quick, like random people yelling “surprise” at a birthday party. Except I am not opening the presents; they are being opened for me!

Wait a minute, I did not authorize this.  Those are my boxes to open, who is doing this?

Stop!

Halt!

No!

Wait!

What words can I use to make it stop? No words work.  Too late. My voice is gone.  I can’t breathe. My face is wet. My heart is beating fast. Is that the sound of my heart breaking?

Yep, I heard a snap.  Extra broken me. This is definitely not a good extra.