Puzzle
The first time a boy told me he was in love with me, I responded “gross” which, in retrospect, was probably not the best way to handle that situation. I was 17, and scared, and only beginning to understand that I was worth loving. Having the weight of someone else’s feelings terrified me.
I’m not saying my response was kind or smart. But I am saying that 17 year olds maybe aren’t well equipped to deal with sudden declarations of emotion.
I broke his heart on a picnic bench. The same bench where a week before he’d sat with a guitar and played me a song he’d written about the curls in my hair. I smiled at him as he sang, his voice earnest and sharp. Sometime, after we were over, he sent me an mp3 of that song. It still comes up on shuffle sometimes, and it feels a little bit like I’m hurting him all over again if I press next. I always listen all the way through.
I’m still not the greatest at accepting affection. I don’t take compliments well and praise makes me uneasy. I’m learning to accept the good things about myself. Learning to be ok with letting others see them.
I have playlists and playlists full of women singing about how much better they feel now that they’ve learned to love themselves. Sometimes, if I turn them up loud enough, their words will cover up the refrain of the boy whose heart I broke, the boy who I was scared to let see me as a person who could be worthy of someone’s love.
I like to think that I’ve gotten better as I’ve gotten older. Stronger. More sure of myself.
But it’s scary to be open and honest with my emotions. It’s scary to put my heart out in to the world and say “Hi there. This is how I feel. Maybe you’ll like it. Maybe you won’t. I don’t really care.”
I’m 22 now, with a bit more of life behind me then the 17 year old in a uniform skirt and scuffed up frog patterned sneakers.
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| A puzzle we created this summer made up of smaller puzzles, one from each participant at Kutz. |
I am assembling the puzzle of my life with parts I found in between couch cushions and in pockets of jeans that I’d sent through the wash. Some pieces are broken, and some are missing. Some I might have stolen from another puzzle box, in the closet down the hall. There are corner pieces I fashioned myself with cardboard and glue and wishes and prayers. Colors I’ve painted on, from paint boxes lent by friends. The puzzle’s not finished;It’s nowhere near complete. But the borders are starting to seem a little more solid. There are pieces grouped by color, and if you squint—hard enough that it hurts your eyes—maybe, just maybe, a picture is starting to emerge.
I don’t know what that image is yet. But I see more of it then I did when I was scared and 17.
Someday, decades from now, I’ll reminisce about it all. “Remember how long it took to figure out the outlines?” I’ll think to myself. “Remember that decade you had it upside down?”
Those times will seem distant, just like 17 seems to me now, and 22 will seem to me in just a few more short years. I don’t know if believe that age brings wisdom, but age brings distance and distance brings perspective.
The best thing about the puzzle is that each piece is important. The corners I collected at 17 will mix with the blue tinted pieces with too many edges I pick up when I’m 27. They’ll mix together, find the places that they fit and create something. Create me.
I bet it turns out beautifully. 
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