“BROKEN HOME” I looked around the house; the walls seemed strong and they were holding together. I couldn’t seem to find any holes. Where were they? I knew they had to be somewhere, but my search for a gap or even a crack became hopeless. Maybe it was Mom’s house that was punctured, but when I looked around her place, I was equally disappointed. Yet, people insisted that I came from a broken home. That was fourteen years ago, and now that I’m much older, I know that they didn’t mean “broken” in the literal sense. I can still remember the confusion, that burning question inside of me; if my home is as sturdy as everyone else’s, then why am I labeled as different? It’s a painful reality that has taken me all these years to accept being different, being broken. I used to wonder; if it’s bad to break things, is it bad to be broken too? I can see there is something broken about my family. Instead of being one supportive unit, our home has been one of constant fighting and worrying. Instead of following my parent’s directives, I am forced to decide which parent to listen to. And I hate it. I hate being stuck in the middle of two sides, trapped in the center of the conflict, with no place to turn. I’m not on one side and I’m not on the other. I’m just lost in the middle with my sister and three brothers. When I closed my eyes, I imagined that it’s all a game of tug-of-war. I am the rope that both my parent so desperate to gain. They both pull without compromise, determined to win me over. Each pull is a painful blow, a searing pain that rips at my soul. Sometimes I think the solution would be to just go to one side. To give one of them the victory, but that means that the other has to declare defeat. I’m forced to choose between the two people I love most in the world. To decide which one I want to give up. How could I willingly tear a piece of my heart out like that? As much as I just want one place to belong, I can’t choose, not with so much at stake. I’m still stuck in the middle. The longer I’m there, the more I feel myself tearing, one strand at a time. With each tug, those knots that bound our family together start to unravel. I know that if I leave things this way, then I’ll eventually break down altogether. Soon the rope will tear in half, and as a result, both my parents will fall to the ground. Then I know that I’ve really lost. I wish they’d just stop pulling. I wish they wouldn’t fight over me with so much vigor. With each tug, they seem to be telling me, “We both want you so much that we’re going to fight for you, even if it means hurting you in the process.” It sounds ridiculous when I put it that way, but it’s true. I wish my parents would realize how much their love is crushing me. I wish they could just see things the way I do. If I want them to look at things differently, then I have to as well. Sometimes, in the middle of all the fighting, I just close my eyes and tell myself, “Smile. Appreciate all their love. Do you know why Mom’s crying? It’s because she loves you and wants to be with you. Do you know why Dad’s punching walls and slamming doors? It’s because he loves you so much that he can’t bear to leave without you.” When I let myself look at life that way, I feel infused with hope. In my mind’s eye, the rope changes into a piece of elastic. The more they pull, the more I stretch. The pressure is enormous, and it’s so easy to just bounce back. I am growing. With each tug, those painful blows, I become bigger, stronger, and more resilient. That’s when I know that I am the real fighter on the battlefield. I am fighting the odds, the friction. I am the one walking on the minefield. I’m not just a survivor. I am a fighter! I can win and I will! Life is all about choices. I could choose to be the rope or I could choose to be elastic. I could be crushed by my parent’s love for me or I could use it as a springboard to grow and flourish. This is the mindset that keeps me going and helps me appreciate the hard times in my life. I am no longer ashamed of my troubles, but I hold them high as my badge of honor. I can tell the world, that these are mine! This is how I grew. It is through these that I developed my maturity and integrity, my love of life. Now, what do you have to show for yourself? You might think I’m crazy, but it’s this mentality that gets me through life with a smile. Sometimes, life seems so difficult that the maturity I might gain can’t possibly be worth this pain I’m enduring. Surely there is no way to justify my troubles, that knife that is constantly searing into me. Then I remind myself that each of us is a diamond and it’s those cuts that allow us to shine and sparkle. To truly bring out the beauty that’s within us. Yes, it hurts to be beautiful. You might think I’m getting carried away describing how wonderful my life is. I won’t deny that life is difficult and my reality isn’t as rosy as I make it sound. I’ve been taught that everything happens for a good reason. Maybe it was good that my parents split up after all, the house is a lot calmer now. It’s only now, years later, when I climb out of myself and view my life through a bigger and better perspective that I can see things in a much more positive light. I know that my home isn’t broken at all. On the contrary, it’s fixed. Maybe fourteen years ago, when the house was filled with shouting and arguments, maybe then it was broken, but not anymore. Sometimes, the best way of fixing something is by taking it apart and starting a new. Like dismantling an old car and using the pieces to build another. Sometimes, the new car is so much more worthwhile that you wonder why you bothered with the old one in the first place. I could say my home is broken or I could say it’s fixed. I could view life from my limited perspective or I could adopt unlimited viewpoint. I choose the second option. I’ve heard that before each soul comes down into this world, it chooses who its parents will be. I could never understand why I picked my family. Why did I decide to land with divorced parents who can’t get long? Why didn’t I pick a calmer, more peaceful home? Then I remembered to take the second option. Did my parents get married only because my soul asked to be born into their family? It’s a thought that warms me. My parents married even though they were unsuitable for one another, only so that I could be born into the circumstances I wished for, just so I could become precisely the person I am today. All it took was that change in perspective to turn my frown into a smile and to dry up all my tears. It’s up to me how I want to view my life. I could wear the shaded glasses or I could swap them for sunny ones. I could choose to cry or to smile. I could be an ordinary rope or I could be the elastic. It’s my choice and I choose the second option.