He patched and painted the ceiling in the dining room after I took a step in the attic without the knowlege that one must only step on the beams.
One year, our Christmas tree just would not stay up. Until he screwed the stand to the floor. Right through the carpet.
I’ve watched him open up computers, fiddle around, button them back up and suddenly they work again. But once they’re loaded up, he’s got no use for them.
He has six children. Six times (Daddy, fix this times the number of toys each child has owned and/or touched and/or played with) plus (the number of friends who have visited our house times all the toys they’ve broken while here or brought because the toy was broken and they wanted him to fix it) equals roughly a metric fuck-ton of broken.
No child has ever walked away without a working toy and a hug.
He’s fixed tons of motorcycles, including that one I wanted to try. That little Sportster a woman rode. So I said, “Hey I bet I could ride that! Let me walk it into the garage!”
He stood back. I hopped on, kicked up the kickstand, took one step forward and then just keeled over to the side, unable to hold up the weight of the bike.
He fixed that, too.
Cars. Appliances. Skinned knees. Bruised egos.
He’s fixed all that.
The one thing I love the most, I can’t fix.
He’s said that to me a lot over the last three years. With a sigh and a sense of regret so thick I sometimes can’t breathe in the same room with it.
It’s not your job to.
That’s always my response. With a sigh and a sense of shame so thick I feel my throat closing.
Only I can fix me. We both know that.
But I’m no mechanic.
I flounder, searching for things that will work. Things I can manage. Things that will stick.
Therapy and vitamins. BDSM and yoga. Old friends and new. Reading and writing.
Changing how I view myself and the world around me. Changing how I confront the things that make me uncomfortable. Changing my life and how I want to live it.
That’s a lot of change to try and understand, let alone embrace.
He can’t fix me.
But every time he hugs me and tells me he’s proud . . .
Every time he sits with his discomfort while I flit about in the breeze . . .
Every time he lands a kiss on my forehead and a good girl in my ear . . .
Every time he supports and encourages . . .
He helps put a piece back in place.
He’s a mechanic who loves nothing more than when things are fixed.
Except me. Even if I’m broken.