BLINDSIDED

Picture it. Sicily. No wait, that’s someone else’s tale.

Picture it. You’re driving down the highway with your top off. Your car’s top, not yours. Driving naked is illegal, not to mention, distracting to other drivers! The wind is blowing through your short hair. Or maybe you need to stop your long hair from whipping you in the face by wearing a scarf or a babushka, as Gramma called it. The dog is seat-belted in the front seat enjoying the wind blowing through her fur—you know what, for the point of the story, let’s leave the dog at home. She needs a nap and gets cranky on long rides.

Okay, so you’re alone, driving with no traffic, sunscreen on the face, because no one needs melanoma. The music is pumping and life is good. Then out of nowhere, bam, you smash into a 17-car pile-up and everything once lovely and happy just became a shit storm.

Your face is bruised from the airbag. A raging headache. Car’s broken. And now life totally sucks. 

I’m not talking literal here. No one needs a car crash or a screwed up back for the rest of their life. I’m talking about the events that happen in our happy lives that throw us off course. Life is good. Work is good. Home life is good. But everything good must come to an end, right?

I call this situation…blindsided.

After a horrific event that disrupts our lives, we feel a bit broken. We were just thrown off course and the worst part is that we never saw it coming. What was once a masterful self-portrait, just shattered and scattered all along the highway of life.

So now what?

You could crawl into a ditch on the side of the road and ask for Death’s scythe to end the misery.

Or—

You could get out of your smashed car and start gathering the fragmented pieces of yourself. You’re allowed to start rebuilding by putting the mess back together.

And that’s what I did.

I gathered my remnants. Some were unsalvageable, but that’s okay; I didn’t need those parts of me anymore. I gently placed my broken pieces into a little picnic basket (because who doesn’t keep a spare picnic basket in the trunk). Then, I bought some glue, glitter, and paint. After I laid my pieces on the table, I rearranged the portrait and began reassembling a 3D model of myself.

The rebuilt structure of me isn’t perfect like it once was, but if it were perfect, then that means I’ve lived a boring life, a comfortable life with no risks or adventure. From tiny pieces to chunks of emotional goo, I’ve spent time soldering and mending, placing each fragment into its rightful place.

I found little shavings of gold and silver on the highway that I tucked into the corners. It’s a bit lopsided and the retrieved copper is slightly green from oxidization. Sure, there are sticks that could poke certain persons in the eyeball if they get too close. And yes, the recovered gems are chipped, but the clarity is far more visible than ever.

I’m proud of the art I’ve constructed.

I’m proud of the weirdly shaped mosaic model of a collage masterpiece I call—me.