Fixing Broken Pieces Quotes

You deserve better. I can’t promise you I’ll stay around, not because I don’t want to. It’s hard to explain. I’m a fuckup. I’m broken, and no one can fix it. I’ve tried. I’m still trying. I can’t love anyone because it’s not fair to anyone who loves me back. I’ll never hurt you, not like I want to hurt Roamer. But I can’t promise I won’t pick you apart, piece by piece, until you’re in a thousand pieces, just like me. You should know what you’re getting into before getting involved.

The Young Man came to the Old Man seeking counsel. I broke something, Old Man. How badly is it broken? It's in a million little pieces. I'm afraid I can't help you. Why? There's nothing you can do. Why? It can't be fixed. Why? It's broken beyond repair. It's in a million little pieces.

You can run away from yourself so often, and so much, just because the broken pieces of you cut your feet too deeply if you stay around for too long. But then what if someone were to come along and pick up those pieces for you? Then you wouldn't have to run away from yourself anymore. You could stop running. If someone sees you as something worth staying with— maybe you'll stay with yourself, too.

Some things just can't be put back together. Some things can never be fixed. Two broken pieces can't make a lot of anything anymore. But at least he had the broken pieces.

Perfectionism is the belief that something is broken - you. So you dress up your brokenness with degrees, achievements, accolades, pieces of paper, none of which can fix what you think you are fixing.

I mean, I don’t know how the world broke. And I don’t know if there’s a God who can help us fix it. But the fact that the world is broken - I absolutely believe that. Just look around us. Every minute - every single second - there are a million things you could be thinking about. A million things you could be worrying about. Our world - don’t you just feel we’re becoming more fragmented? I used to think that when I got older, the world would make so much more sense. But you know what? The older I get, the more confusing it is to me. The more complicated it is. Harder. You’d think we’d be getting better at it. But there’s just more and more chaos. The pieces - they’re everywhere. And nobody knows what to do about it. I find myself grasping, Nick. You know that feeling? That feeling when you just want the right thing to fall into the right place, not only because it’s right, but because it would mean that such a thing is still possible? I want to believe that.

I’ve come to the conclusion that there are no set rules in life. You do what you have to do to survive. If that means running away from the love of your life to preserve your sanity, you do it. If it means breaking someone’s heart so yours doesn’t break; do it. Life is complicated — too much so for there to be absolutes. We are all so broken. Pick up a person, shake them around and you’ll hear the rattling of their broken pieces. Pieces our fathers broke, or our mothers, or our friends, strangers, or our loves. Olivia has stopped rattling quite as much as she used to. Love is a God-given tool, she tells me. It screws things back in place that were loose, and it cleans out all the broken pieces that you don’t need anymore. I believe her. Our love has been fixing each other. I hope to only hear a tiny jingle when I shake her in a few years

Remember what I told you about need versus want? We don't need you because that implies you had to fix something in us. We were never broken. We want you, Wallace. Every piece. Every part. Because we're family. Can you see the difference?

No amount of soul searching would fix my past. There was no magical Band-Aid I could stick on my heart, no special glue I could use to make myself whole again. I had shattered to pieces like a fragile vase on concrete; some fragments could be roughly cobbled back together, but many of my vital parts had simply turned to dust, pulverized and scattered by the first gust of wind.

If I had coal and fire And metal fine and true I’d make an iron band An iron band for you I’d pick up all the pieces From where they fell that day Fit them back together And take the pain away But I don’t have the iron And I don’t have the steel To wrap around your broken heart And teach it how to heal Somewhere in the fire Somewhere in the pain I’d find the magic that I need To make you whole again I’d make the iron band so strong I’d make it gleam so bright I’d fix the things I’ve broken I’d turn my wrongs to right But I don’t have the steel To wrap around your broken heart Wish I could make it heal Wish I could make it heal (Ch. 27)

Maybe it wasn’t about fixing the broken hearts. Maybe it was about loving the broken pieces the way they were.

I don't have all the pieces to fix this beautiful, trapped, broken man, but I do have one piece and it's mine to give. For one night, for all nights. For however long he wants it. Me. Completely.

It will be foolish not to get your heart broken, even once. For having a broken heart makes you realize the immense capability it possesses to mend and heal itself and to love far more intensely,with every affixed piece of it that was once broken and torn apart..

I know who you are. I know what you do to me. Just having you near me fixes everything that is broken inside of me. All of my fucked up little pieces become one.

Tikkun olam.” Exactly. Basically, it says that the world has been broken into pieces. All this chaos, all this discord. And our job - everyone’s job - is to try to put the pieces back together. To make things whole again.” And you believe that?” I guess I do. I mean, I don’t know how the world broke. And I don’t know if there’s a God who can help us fix it. But the fact that the world is broken - I absolutely believe that. Just look around us. Every minute - every single second - there are a million things you could be thinking about. A million things you could be worrying about. Our world - don’t you feel we’re becoming more and more fragmented? I used to think that when I got older, the world would make so much more sense. But you know what? The older I get, the more confusing it is to me. The more complicated it is. Harder. You’d think we’d be getting better at it. But there’s just more and more chaos. The pieces - they’re everywhere. And nobody knows what to do about it. I find myself grasping, Nick. You know that feeling? That feeling when you just want the right thing to fall into the right place, not only because it’s right, but because it will mean that such a thing is still possible? I want to believe in that.” Do you really think it’s getting worse? I mean, aren’t we better off than we were twenty years ago? Or a hundred?” We’re better off. But I don’t know if the world’s better off. I don’t know if the two are the same thing.” You’re right.” Excuse me?” I said, ‘You’re right.’” But nobody ever says, ‘You’re right.’ Just like that.” Really?” Really.” …Then it hits me. Maybe we’re the pieces,” What?” Maybe that’s it. With what you were talking about before. The world being broken. Maybe it isn’t that we’re supposed to find the pieces and put them back together. Maybe we’re the pieces. Maybe, what we’re supposed to do is come together. That’s how we stop the breaking.” Tikkun olam.

. . . how easily some things can be broken for good and for bad, and how some things, no matter how shattered, can still go back together. Like Moo, my family may never be as strong as it once was. There are chips and cracks and scars, But some of them can be repaired, piece by piece, rebuilt into something even more cherished and loved and unique.

I'm broken, and no one can fix it. I've tried. I'm still trying. I can't love anyone because it's not fair to anyone who loves me back. I'll never hurt you... But I can't promise I won't pick you apart, piece by piece, until you're in a thousand pieces just like me.

The thing about Wes," Delia said to me, unwrapping another package of turkey, "is that he thinks he can fix anything. And if he can't fix it, he can at least do something with the pieces of what's broken.

You are mine. Do you understand me? Mine! And if I have to spend the rest of my life finding every single piece of your broken heart, I will. I will put you back together again Em. I’ll do it because I’m still so in love with you. I will fix you, and I’ll fix this.

I am the kind of broken they can't fix. I am no longer the same little girl they loved.

I tried to gather all the pieces… I picked each one and fixed them so perfectly. No one could say that I was broken once, unless they see my hands, lacerated by the splinters of my heart.

I’m not just screwed up, Ms Hughes. I’m as broken as they come, but I don’t need to be fixed. I don’t want to be fixed.” He caged her in. “I like all my fucked-up shards and pieces. They make me who I am. They make me real. The question is, can you handle real?

I know I can't fix you, but I can hold you. I can hold you so tight you'll forget you feel broken because I'll be holding all your broken pieces together.

Change always happens... We adjust to it. Somehow we figure out a way. We straighten what we can or learn how to like something a little crooked. That's how it is. Something breaks, you fix it as best you can. There's always a way to make something better, even if it means sweeping up the broken pieces and starting all over. That's how we keep moving, keep breathing, keep opening our eyes every morning, even when the only thing we know for sure is that we're still alive.

She ran straight for me like I’m her goddamn savior. Like I’m capable of fixing everything. Like I’m capable of protecting her. Like I’m whole enough to help fill in the broken, fractured pieces of her, too. And then she went and held me in her arms like that. Fuck.

She gets my need to fix things that have broken along the way, to mend fences. Maybe if we all just tried to put the pieces back together as soon as they fell out of place, the puzzles in our lives would feel more like an accomplishment than a chore.

I'm the glue that puts all her pieces together. All of those beautiful broken pieces are mine to fix. You're just a bystander.

Smile. Smile until all that's left are the pieces of your broken heart that are slowly fixing itself.

AUTHOR'S GOODREADS PAGE: I like dysfunction. Broken people who can't fix each other, but fit together because they're missing the same pieces.

There’s nothing you can do, Valoria. I’m not one of your inventions. I’m broken, part of me is missing, and you can’t fix me with copper wires or a piece of string.

Some things can't be fixed, they can't be glued back together as they were. Sometimes, all you can do is find the beauty in the broken. All you can do is figure out how to put the pieces together as best you can, to make something new out of them.

He thinks he can fix anything. And if he can't fix it, he can at least do something with the pieces of what's broken.

She never knew her tender soul died daily as she helped him yo fix his broken pieces of life. His departure was no longer a pain but a slow death

I tried to gather all the pieces… I picked each one and fixed them so perfectly. No one could say that I was broken once but they saw my hands, lacerated by the splinters of my heart…

There’s nothing wrong with being broken. Some things aren’t meant to be whole. And some things don’t need to be fixed. Some things are broken and aren’t meant to be fixed. But that doesn’t mean they’re fine the way they are. It just means they are the way they are. There’s no changing them or undoing the past. There’s no gluing the pieces back together and remaking the whole how it once was. There’s just sorting through the shards and making something new out of them. That’s all you can do.

Music was my therapy, and after a few songs, I always felt stronger. It was crazy how jazz fixed the broken pieces of me every time, how the sounds always took me back to a safe place in my soul.

He saw her. Not just her mesmerizing eyes, her smooth skin and curly, brown hair. He saw beyond that. Way beyond, inside her soul. Inside where he could reach and touch the pieces of the heart he had broken. Some of the pieces were so badly damaged that they could never be fixed again, but he didn’t care about that because they were his broken pieces—his to cherish, his to love, his to bring back to life.

Maybe, just maybe, we're all broken lunatics, trying to fix ourselves, but falling in and out of wrong pieces of the one soul, that created an eternity ago, as an inherent creation, like a sunset, that turns sunrise somewhere else, to bring us all together in synchronicity, until we find each of the missing pieces, scattered across the universe.

There is good even in church people. You find it hard to believe, right? Jesus never shut the door on religious people. He just made sure that they understand He was that door, and not their deeds and tasks. Some of us, even I, need to be reminded of this. This being understood, the people of the church are like broken pieces of glass fixed into beautiful mosaic to reflect Jesus. The picture is beautiful, but the pieces do indeed still have sharp edges that can cut.

People don’t actually care about fixing you. They just want to shape your broken pieces until they fit their standards. Smooth ’em out, make ’em less sharp, so they don’t cut so deep when they collect ’em. But you ain’t any less broken.

You have taken someone from me with your actions—someone very precious to me. And now you have helped a lunatic corrupt her already damaged heart, shattering it into a million pieces. They are pieces I will pick up and fix, but what you have done is unforgivable. I plan to make you suffer for that transgression. Death would be a kindness, and you deserve none.

My need for validation was rooted in my belief that I was born a broken girl. I didn’t know how to fix myself or find magic in the mess I was making, and I believed that in order to become whole, I needed someone else to put my pieces together.

There was so much filth to clean up; so many broken pieces to fix; so many errors to correct. Every morning she left her house she let out a quiet sigh, as if in one breath she could will away detritus of the previous day. --Three Daughters of Eve

These are things I can't change. Not one of them. Can't fix, can't heal, can't put the broken pieces back together. But what I can do is offer myself, wholehearted and present, to walk with the people I love through the fear and the mess. That's all any of us can do. That's what we're here for. Not the battle lines, keeping people in and out. Not the "pro" and "anti" stances, but the presence, the listening, the praying with and for on the days when it all falls apart, when life shatters in our hands.

i can fix a lot of things but cannot mend a broken heart for it is too fragile and fixing it is another art but i hope to learn it soon as i see mine getting torn before it breaks into a million pieces and i am left to fix it all alone

River: There’s nothing wrong with being broken. Some things aren’t meant to be whole. And some things don’t need to be fixed. Priest: Some things are broken and aren’t meant to be fixed. But that doesn’t mean they’re fine the way they are. It just means they are the way they are. There’s no changing them or undoing the past. There’s no gluing the pieces back together and remaking the whole how it once was. There’s just sorting through the shards and making something new out of them. That’s all you can do.

You look like someone who has gone to war and came back with a thousand deaths burned in his eyes. You look like someone who has been told a dozen promises – promises that broke his heart when he realized he didn't matter enough for them to be kept. You look like someone whose edges started to chip away. You look like someone I could love, someone whose darkness I could light up. But goddamn it, darling, I promised myself I would never fall in love with a broken man. I have loved so many broken people and I have fixed them all up. I kept giving all I had, until I had nothing left to give. You look like someone I could love, someone I want to fall in love with. But you‘re in pieces, I know you‘ll just wound me.

I know.” He said it so matter-of-fact that I took a step back. “I’ve always known you’d never hurt me.” “Then why would you ask about Jeff, or think I was going to leave?” Morgan’s smile was subtle. “Because you’re the one who doesn’t trust. Me, yourself, even your faraway island. You doubt everything. And people who can’t trust, eventually run.” He took a step forward, and even though I didn’t mean to, I took a step back. “You don’t believe in yourself. You’re scared of getting lost. Getting hurt. Being trapped.” I bumped the coffee table, stumbled, and wound up sitting on my ass. Morgan pushed his way between my knees and cupped my face. He continued to hold my gaze. Never had he looked at me with so much knowledge of who I was shining in his eyes. “Love is easy.” He traced my eyebrow with his thumb. “Trust is what’s hard. Broken hearts can be fixed. Broken trust?” His touch followed a tear down my cheek to my lips. “Trust doesn’t heal. Your parents broke your trust when you were really young, it changed you, it took something away. Then the one time you let trust grow, you thought it had been broken again. That’s where it can be tricky, because sometimes trust feels broken when it’s only a little dented up. "But it still feels like you’re losing bits and pieces of yourself.” Closer, his exhale ghosted my lips. “Now you’re scared to trust me because you might lose everything you have left.

I’m the glue that puts all her pieces together. All of those beautiful broken pieces are mine to fix.

The time to fix something is when it’s first broken, not when it’s shattered in so many pieces that there’s not enough glue in the world to put it back together again.

We don't need you because that implies you had to fix something in us. We were never broken. We want you, Wallace. Every piece. Every part. Because we're family.

All my broken pieces are going to love you, just as I am now, without ever being fixed.

People are always waiting around for that magical person who’ll walk into their life and fix them, who’ll offer up some vital piece they’ve been missing and make them complete. They spend years trying to fit their broken edges against another person’s and call themselves whole and healed. The only problem with this, of course, is that expecting anyone else to fix you is an unequivocal disaster. You can't wait for a man to come around and put you back together. You have to put yourself back together first, and become the kind of woman who deserves a good man.

Cooper Hubson, in all my life I'll never be able to thank God enough for you. You have taken the pieces of me that were broken and began fixing them one by one, and you did it with just your smile.

I loved all the broken pieces because I found beauty in fixing things. Even those shattered upon repair. But you were the type to destroy it all again a few moments after spending months completing it.

What kind of a church would we become if we simply allowed broken people to gather, and did not try to “fix” them but simply to love and behold them, contemplating the shapes that broken pieces can inspire?

Perfectionism is the belief that something is broken—you. So you dress up your brokenness with degrees, achievements, accolades, pieces of paper, none of which can fix what you think you are fixing. In trying to combat my low self-esteem, I was actually reinforcing my sense of unworthiness. In learning to offer my patients total love and acceptance, I fortunately learned the importance of offering the same to myself.

...her heart filled with regret; regret for a broken marriage she knew could never be fixed and for the life she had imagined herself living which had been ripped apart, like her heart, by the man who she thought she would grow old with and be married to for the rest of her life.

I said it to the Flower, I'll say it again: There's a solace to be found in sadness. And I understand why ye’d think ye deserve that dark. Easier to find refuge in drink, in rage, to say hell with it all and push everyone away. Because ye think that cold is easier to live with than the pain that could come if ye let the warmth back in, only to be burned again. But that's the fire that lets us know we're alive, Gabriel." ‘I shook my head, two pale shadows now rising at my back. “‘You can't fix a broken blade, Phoebe." “‘But don't ye see? We don't get broken. We’re made broken. We are not whole alone. But if we're blessed, if we're brave, we might find those few whose edges fit against our own. Like pieces of the same puzzle, or shards of the same shattered blade. Those people who, in their own broken way, make our broken edge complete.

Time, like a skilful tailor, had seamlessly stitched together the two fabrics that sheathed Peri’s life: what people thought of her and what she thought of herself. The impression she left on others and her self-perception had been sewn into a whole so consummate that she could no longer tell how much of each day was defined by what was wished upon her and how much of it was what she really wanted. She often felt the urge to grab a bucketful of soapy water and scrub the streets, the public squares, the government, the parliament, the bureaucracy, and, while she was at it, wash out a few mouths too. There was so much filth to clean up; so many broken pieces to fix; so many errors to correct. Every morning when she left her house she let out a quiet sigh, as if in one breath she could will away the detritus of the previous day. While Peri questioned the world without fail, and was not one to keep silent in the face of injustice, she had resolved some years ago to be content with what she had. It would therefore come as a surprise when, on a middling kind of day, at the age of thirty-five, established and respected, she found herself staring at the void in her soul.

Home isn’t a place where everything stays the same; it’s a place where you are safe and loved despite nothing staying the same. Change always happens. Always. Surely Jamie knows that. We adjust to it. Somehow we figure out a way. We straighten what we can or learn how to like something a little crooked. That’s how it is. Something breaks, you fix it as best you can. There’s always a way to make something better, even if it means sweeping up the broken pieces and starting all over. That’s how we keep moving, keep breathing, keep opening our eyes every morning, even when the only thing we know for sure is that we’re still alive.

I pushed myself up onto my hands and knees, ignoring the bite of the frosty air on my bare skin. I launched myself in the direction of the door, fumbling around until I found it. I tried shaking the handle, jiggling it, still thinking, hoping, praying that this was some big birthday surprise, and that by the time I got back inside, there would be a plate of pancakes at the table and Dad would bring in the presents, and we could—we could—we could pretend like the night before had never happened, even with the evidence in the next room over. The door was locked. “I’m sorry!” I was screaming. Pounding my fists against it. “Mommy, I’m sorry! Please!” Dad appeared a moment later, his stocky shape outlined by the light from inside of the house. I saw Mom’s bright-red face over his shoulder; he turned to wave her off and then reached over to flip on the overhead lights. “Dad!” I said, throwing my arms around his waist. He let me keep them there, but all I got in return was a light pat on the back. “You’re safe,” he told me, in his usual soft, rumbling voice. “Dad—there’s something wrong with her,” I was babbling. The tears were burning my cheeks. “I didn’t mean to be bad! You have to fix her, okay? She’s…she’s…” “I know, I believe you.” At that, he carefully peeled my arms off his uniform and guided me down, so we were sitting on the step, facing Mom’s maroon sedan. He was fumbling in his pockets for something, listening to me as I told him everything that had happened since I walked into the kitchen. He pulled out a small pad of paper from his pocket. “Daddy,” I tried again, but he cut me off, putting down an arm between us. I understood—no touching. I had seen him do something like this before, on Take Your Child to Work Day at the station. The way he spoke, the way he wouldn’t let me touch him—I had watched him treat another kid this way, only that one had a black eye and a broken nose. That kid had been a stranger. Any hope I had felt bubbling up inside me burst into a thousand tiny pieces. “Did your parents tell you that you’d been bad?” he asked when he could get a word in. “Did you leave your house because you were afraid they would hurt you?” I pushed myself up off the ground. This is my house! I wanted to scream. You are my parents! My throat felt like it had closed up on itself. “You can talk to me,” he said, very gently. “I won’t let anyone hurt you. I just need your name, and then we can go down to the station and make some calls—” I don’t know what part of what he was saying finally broke me, but before I could stop myself I had launched my fists against him, hitting him over and over, like that would drive some sense back into him. “I am your kid!” I screamed. “I’m Ruby!” “You’ve got to calm down, Ruby,” he told me, catching my wrists. “It’ll be okay. I’ll call ahead to the station, and then we’ll go.” “No!” I shrieked. “No!” He pulled me off him again and stood, making his way to the door. My nails caught the back of his hand, and I heard him grunt in pain. He didn’t turn back around as he shut the door. I stood alone in the garage, less than ten feet away from my blue bike. From the tent that we had used to camp in dozens of times, from the sled I’d almost broken my arm on. All around the garage and house were pieces of me, but Mom and Dad—they couldn’t put them together. They didn’t see the completed puzzle standing in front of them. But eventually they must have seen the pictures of me in the living room, or gone up to my mess of the room. “—that’s not my child!” I could hear my mom yelling through the walls. She was talking to Grams, she had to be. Grams would set her straight. “I have no child! She’s not mine—I already called them, don’t—stop it! I’m not crazy!

I needed to walk away. I needed to walked away without trying to fix him or our relationship, but leaving the pieces broken wasn’t easy. It was like leaving shards of the most beautiful glass scattered across your floor, because the pieces were too shattered. And now, you had to step cautiously around the brokenness in order not to slice yourself on the remains.

I forgive him, But I don´t know if I trully trust him, and this is funny thing about trust. You can love and forgive, but you don´t necessarily trust, Broken hearts and promises can be fixed so easily because they break in different way than trust, When trust is broken, it´s shattered into thousand pieces. And sometimes, it´s never put back together the same way.

I’d been used for so long, I’d forgotten how pleasurable sex could be. “I will obliterate any motherfucker who lays a hand on you again … I’d kill for you.” In his bed, amid the darkness, the destruction, the ruin, he fixed me. His gentle hands delicately fastened together the pieces of me that’d become so broken and scattered with no hope for convergence. As I lay beside him, the soothing tap of rain against the window, I felt whole.

In Japanese culture there is an art of fixing broken pottery with gold or silver lacquer. The lacquer highlights the pottery’s flaw as a celebrated part of its history. Because the piece has been salvaged and repaired, pulled back from the edge of destruction, it is considered even more beautiful for having been broken. We’d been broken. And then we’d been pieced back together. The turmoil had been meaningful because now there was gold where the cracks used to be.

With that in mind, I pull the door shut and look for a seat belt to buckle. I find only the frayed end of a seat belt and a broken buckle. “Where did you find this piece of junk?” says Christina. “I stole it from the factionless. They fix them up. It wasn’t easy to get it to start. Better ditch those jackets, girls.” I ball up our jackets and toss them out the half-open window. Marcus shifts the truck into drive, and it groans. I half expect it to stay still when he presses the gas pedal, but it moves. From what I remember, it takes about an hour to drive from the Abnegation sector to Amity headquarters, and the trip requires a skilled driver. Marcus pulls onto one of the main thoroughfares and pushes his foot into the gas pedal. We lurch forward, narrowly avoiding a gaping hole in the road. I grab the dashboard to steady myself. “Relax, Beatrice,” says Marcus. “I’ve driven a car before.” “I’ve done a lot of things before, but that doesn’t mean I’m any good at them!” Marcus smiles and jerks the truck to the left so that we don’t hit a fallen stoplight. Christina whoops as we bump over another piece of debris, like she’s having the time of her life. “A different kind of stupid, right?” she says, her voice loud enough to be heard over the rush of wind through the cab. I clutch the seat beneath me and try not to think of what I ate for dinner.

On this day, Eustace was heating iron rods to fix a broken piece on his antique mower. He had a number of irons cooking in his forge at the same time and, distracted by trying to teach me the basics of blacksmithing, he allowed several of them to get too hot, to the point of compromising the strength of the metal. When he saw this, he said, "Damn! I have too many irons in the fire." Which was the first time I had ever heard that expression used in its proper context. But such is the satisfaction of being around Eustace; everything suddenly seems to be in its proper context. He makes true a notion of frontier identity that has long since passed most men of his generation, most of whom are left with nothing but the vocabulary.

Please don’t give me answers; though that is what I say, that is not what I long for in this chest of broken pieces. I do not want your sympathy, your pat Bible verses, or your lofty promises of prayer. No, I want something much more sinister than that. I ask you to suffer, to take my nails of my grief and drive them into yourself. I ask you to be silent, shut your mouth, and open your hands. Don’t say you understand. Just touch me. Will you hold my hand? Though it’s cold and bony, will you embrace me tightly? Can you wail as I wail, curse as I curse, pray as I pray? I don’t want to be fixed; I want to be known. I want your presence kneeling by my bed, feeling useless, powerless, helpless. Yes, for then, for then, you will understand a small part of me that few have had the courage to know.

WILL NEVER BE AN OPTION Why do you think I should be an option Or the side piece for any man? My deepest sympathy For your illusions. Assumptions are worse than demons; Bombs and bullets get more respect Than your disrespect. You are used to women Who have no problem Being an option or fighting with the Next woman for your attention. Reality check: I am not the one. I will create my kingdom Until the right man comes along. I will never be an option Or make him one. Hate me, slander me... Have your whole army of community Rise up against me... Grounded, I stand. I fear no man. I PROMISE YOU I will never share a man Or entertain a woman’s man. A woman who tears another woman down Needs to go within and heal her demons. I walk with queens Who fix another woman’s crown. Ironically, my self-respect started a war To tear me down on the internet. Your tongue became so poisonous, It reeks of death. For the attack I received, My Healing Journal ~ From Once Broken to I AM No remorse has come from you yet. I do not expect it. You will never acknowledge your wrongs. If you confront me, Expect the silence of resilience. My confidence is not cocky, Nor is it a red flag. I do not share. Never will. Never had.

I still find it strange how easy it is to see solutions for others but not for yourself. Those years I slogged out sixteen-hour days, no weekends, no holidays, no life—it’s hard to recognize compulsion when you’re in the thick of it. The compulsion to fill the hole you left, Dad. It’s only now I really see it. I’ve been replaying the same story. I’ve been replaying you, with every patient, replaying the imagined moment I could have fixed you. Over and over again. Classic PTSD. But I couldn’t have fixed you then. And I can’t fix you now. I didn’t see you that night at the bottom of the stairs, Dad, you didn’t put your coat on and leave; you were just a figment of my addled brain. You’re gone. At the back of my mind, I suppose, I always knew you died, but I was so enamored with the idea you might come back one day and explain it all. Explain it all away. Tell me you didn’t do what you did. Or I’d explain it for you, through someone else, through my job; finally I’d work out why you did what you did. Why people do the things they do. Somehow I’d uncover your reasons. But I’ve been scrambling around for too long now trying to gather together the broken pieces of you, the shattered fragments you left all over our lives. I’ve been so focused on putting those pieces—and you—back together again that somewhere along the way I came apart at the seams. But now it’s time for me to put myself back together.

November 1 SINGING YOUR OWN PRAISES “Piglet noticed that even though he had a Very Small Heart, it could hold a rather large amount of Gratitude.” —A. A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh As an introvert, you might have grown up feeling anything but grateful for your personality. You tried to cure your introversion by mimicking extroverted behavior. Of course, this didn’t work because you can’t fix what isn’t broken. You are an introvert. You like people, but sometimes you like your alone time more. You think deeply and choose your words carefully. You enjoy different pastimes than the extrovert down the street. None of this makes you a bad person. In fact, there are billions of other people who share your preferences. So, let’s try a different approach, shall we? Let’s try on a little self-acceptance for size. Instead of trying to fix or cure, let’s celebrate our strengths. For the longest time, I saw my quietness as a fatal flaw, a sign that I was not friendly or feminine enough. Now, I see it as just another piece of the intricate mosaic that is my personality. Alongside my quietness, there is also intuition, wisdom, and an ability to read between the lines. Sure, I speak slowly and pause often, but I am singing on the inside. Those who matter can hear my silent song. This month’s entries will help you to see the beauty in your introverted nature and guide you toward singing your own praises (quietly, of course).

Dogs see the bigger picture—everything as a whole, not broken pieces of glass that need fixing.—Madison

You have no other choice, I tell myself. There is no other way. With that in mind, I pull the door shut and look for a seat belt to buckle. I find only the frayed end of a seat belt and a broken buckle. “Where did you find this piece of junk?” says Christina. “I stole it from the factionless. They fix them up. It wasn’t easy to get it to start. Better ditch those jackets, girls.” I ball up our jackets and toss them out the half-open window. Marcus shifts the truck into drive, and it groans. I half expect it to stay still when he presses the gas pedal, but it moves. From what I remember, it takes about an hour to drive from the Abnegation sector to Amity headquarters, and the trip requires a skilled driver. Marcus pulls onto one of the main thoroughfares and pushes his foot into the gas pedal. We lurch forward, narrowly avoiding a gaping hole in the road. I grab the dashboard to steady myself. “Relax, Beatrice,” says Marcus. “I’ve driven a car before.” “I’ve done a lot of things before, but that doesn’t mean I’m any good at them!” Marcus smiles and jerks the truck to the left so that we don’t hit a fallen stoplight. Christina whoops as we bump over another piece of debris, like she’s having the time of her life. “A different kind of stupid, right?” she says, her voice loud enough to be heard over the rush of wind through the cab. I clutch the seat beneath me and try not to think of what I ate for dinner.

How many times do I have to say it?” Sylvan said through gritted teeth. “I have vowed never—” “Never to call a bride,” Baird finished for him. “I know, I know. I just wish you would change your mind, Brother. Wish you could experience the joy I feel when I hold Olivia in my arms.” “I wish it too,” Sylvan admitted in a low voice. “But even if I hadn’t made a sacred vow to the Mother of All Life, I could never call a bride. That part of me is…broken. Damaged beyond repair.” “Don’t you think I was broken too?” Baird demanded, frowning at him. “After what I went through on the Scourge Fathership? Hell, I was shattered into a thousand pieces but Olivia fixed me. I’m telling you, Sylvan, the right female can heal your wounds if you’d just give her a chance.” “No such female exists.” Sylvan stared down at the program clutched tightly in his hand. “Not for me.” Baird

Och, I’m quite the useful laddie. I can save a sinking calf from the mire, or cook a braw piece of toast, or fix a broken heart.” She

Sometimes what we think is best is actually not the best for us. God knows the beginning from the end and knows how to make you whole. Your brokenness is not the end of who you are; it is the beginning. Life will break you, but God will mend you and make you stronger through it all. The society in which we live approaches brokenness with trying to fix it themselves. We cannot fix ourselves. The truth is only God can turn a life that is broken into a thing of beauty.

These are things I can’t change. Not one of them. Can’t fix, can’t heal, can’t put the broken pieces back together. But what I can do is offer myself, wholehearted and present, to walk with the people I love through the fear and the mess. That’s all any of us can do. That’s what we’re here for.

There you were in broken pieces No one saved the day You grabbed the duct tape and salvation And fixed your problems anyway You left fragments of your heart though On the cracked pavement beneath Not enough for you to bleed out You’re just unsteady on the beat I’ll hold you while you bleed on me And I’ll soothe away your pain I’ll use silk instead of duct tape Which is serviceable and plain I’ll stop up all your leaky parts I’ll seal up all your cracks But whether you’re fixed or broke I need you to come back Just promise me no matter what You’ll still be coming back I’ll put together all your pieces If only you come back.

Mom had planted both wheat seeds and sugar cane, taking care to put them in nice, even rows, and stood back to admire her work, dusting off her hands. “It looks pretty good to me!” With that task finished, Mom went into one of the empty houses, to see if she could find anything else to plant. She was disappointed, though. The house was barren- hardly anything in it at all.  She went through each house and discovered that every single one was pretty much stripped bare. No belongings, no decorations, no furniture. Ethan had been wrong about how much stuff there was in the town. Elijah was going to have to stop burning things for warmth!  Mom had been searching through houses for a while with no luck, so she decided to check on the garden. A smile spread across her face when saw the wheat had already grown in! She could get used to ultra-fast-growing plants. With a skip in her step, she went to find the villagers. The double-E’s were outside their house examining their broken front door. It hung off its hinges, and an entire piece the size of a dog was just missing. Elijah threw his arms in the air. “I don't know how to fix a door!” “Me either,” Ethan said while he scratched his head, “but we have to figure it out. If we don't have doors, the zombies will just come right in and eat us.”  “I can help,” Mom said. The mayors jumped, startled.  “Don’t sneak up on us like that!” Elijah said.

The land and its plant and animal inhabitants are an important source of American Indian morals and values. It can even be said that the land embodies our sense of right and wrong. These morals and values are culturally reproduced and transferred through our oral literature, our stories, and chokecherries figure in many of these. In an indigenous Pacific Northwest tale, Coyote fixes Magpie’s broken wing with a piece of chokecherry. Afterward, Coyote learns of a large sucking monster that is wiping out one of his favorite foods, salmon. In the process of killing the monster, Coyote saves all his animal friends and creates the landscape of the Pacific Northwest as it looks today.

End of May 2012               Hi Andy, I guess we were too arrogant to admit we missed each other after our separation. There were moments when I felt lost and did not know which direction to turn, because my Valet wasn’t there to guide me. I descended into an abyss, looking for love in all the wrong places. I was too inexperienced to understand the spiritual love we shared. I mistook sex for love. A major mistake! I was lonely and I missed your presence. To fill the void, I visited the London underground sex club dungeons and back rooms. These places offered me nothing, except a temporary sexual fix that became a habit and an addiction. Nine months passed before I finally picked up the broken pieces of my life. Lucky to be accepted into the Belfast College of Art and Design, I took this opportunity to start fresh. I left London in the autumn of 1971 for Ireland. My departure proved to be my saving grace. There was nothing to do in the evenings in war-torn Belfast. I plunged myself into my art studies, which I enjoyed tremendously. You’ll never guess what transpired in Belfast that year.

I pretend that I'm a perfect piece.No cracks or broken pieces. But Iittle do you know I'm breaking little by little,not knowing how to fix myself back together.

I pretend to be like I'm a perfect piece,with no cracks or broken pieces. But, little do you I'm already broken trying to fix the pieces together.

I pretend to be like I'm a perfect piece,with no cracks or broken pieces. But, little do you I'm already broken trying to fix the pieces together.

me, even though that was never his job to begin with. But he did fix me; he picked up each broken piece of me and put me back together and he loved my cracks in a way that only he could.

I wouldn’t try to fix her, because one can never fix what is broken. Sometimes you just have to stand in the wreckage and hope you can learn to live within the new shattered pieces.

Things get broken and lost and forgotten as we go through the world, things that we love, things we thought we couldn’t live without. You don’t need to fix everything. It’s not your job. And if we’re both a little broken because of the people we lost, so what? All we can do is keep going, Ishmael. The best thing we can hope for is not that we’re ‘fixed,’ but that we find people who understand the ways in which we’ve been broken. People who stand beside us anyway.’ We kneel on the new floor, holding the scraps and broken pieces of my father’s watch, and cry. It almost feels good to be crying with company, to be crying at home, in this familiar place.

Someone very dear to me once pointed out that supporting someone and fixing them are two different things. Loving and accepting all the broken pieces is the very definition of friendship.

She had wanted him to fix her, but she had known they both couldn’t put their broken pieces together to make one whole person.

But some things can't be fixed, they can't be glued back together as they were. Sometimes, all you can do is find the beauty in the broken. All you can do is figure our how to put the pieces together as best you can, to make something new out of them.

Maybe that’s my appeal then. Everyone wants to fix the broken, right?” “Nah,” he says. “People don’t actually care about fixing you. They just want to shape your broken pieces until they fit their standards. Smooth ’em out, make ’em less sharp, so they don’t cut so deep when they collect ’em. But you ain’t any less broken.

I should have felt better. I should have felt better, and I didn’t. I should have felt better, and I didn’t, and I don’t know how to fix it. What happened yesterday was a huge breakthrough, letting the venom out of my system a relief. But while I was lying in a heap on the ground, all I could think of were the pieces of me that were missing. The piece of me that was missing. Yes, I needed to rid myself of Damon’s poison. Yes, I needed to recognize that what happened to me wasn’t my fault. Yes, I needed to stand up to him and out him to my family and the world. Let them know there’s a deceitful predator amongst them. And, in order to do that, I needed to be strong. To believe in myself as much as I would need them to believe me. To take my word over his.

I think I fell in love with him the moment he found me in my wrecked kitchen with my wrecked heart, and then he took care of them both with such care and gentleness. There was no judgment or need to fix my broken pieces. He simply accepted me, jagged bits and all.

Stop trying to fix his broken pieces. Instead, make a home among them and love his darkness too.

The songs you write are so sad, & I can't help but wonder if your pain came from me. Maybe when they beat it into me, it got into my bones, & I carried it with me ~ and when you tried to fix my broken pieces, you cut yourself on the sharp edges & this sadness got into your blood.

Andra, you must stop believing that what has happened to you makes you unworthy of love. If you were, then I must be just as unworthy, because I am as broken as you. We may be broken in diferent ways, but I want your burdens, your scars, your memories —the good and the bad. They’re a part of you, Andra , and I want them. I don’t expect loving you to fix either of us, but perhaps, if we try, we can fill some of the breaks that our lives have given us. Perhaps the pieces of me that are broken are made to fit with the broken parts of you. I love you, Andra . I love every part of you— and the broken pieces most of all.

The main lesson is there is no one policy, one piece of software, one single change to the environment that can fix a broken school. It’s a whole host of factors, and you have to figure out what they are, how they are interconnected, and then tackle them all together.

Even if fixing a broken school is not on your agenda, we can all learn from Green Dot’s holistic approach. When confronted with any complex problem, take time to figure out all the different variables and how they interact. Map them out on a piece of paper to clarify the connections. Then devise a solution that tackles them all together. No matter how urgent the need for a fix, never promise too much too soon.

Looking back, I think the reason I kept chasing quick fixes was because, for the briefest moment, the slight reprieve they offered helped me forget how messed up and broken I was. In my heart of hearts, I felt like the slate of my life was so scribbled and dirty, with so many arrests and broken relationships, that it wasn’t even worth trying to clean up. Since I could not be cleansed, fixed, or cured, I simply learned to cope by covering the messy “whiteboard” of my life with pieces of white paper: a fling with a cute girl boosted my pride, an epic adventure with friends made me excited and confident; sports made me feel tough, while good grades and a nice job boosted my ego. While each distraction helped me to ignore the mess underneath, I never found anything that could erase it. So, I stacked up the distractions until they grew so numerous, they fluttered everywhere throughout the muddled chaos I called my life.