FIXER
by Val Leichtman
I bang the hammer down, jamming the nail through the wood at an odd angle, cracking the broken box more. I squeeze glue into the crack and push the pieces of wood together. The hinges on the top creak with my effort and begin to bend. Sweat pours down my face as I look at my work. What was once a box with a small hole in it, is now a monstrosity fit only for a modern art exhibit.
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I am a fixer. I don’t like things to be “broken” around me. That includes people and situations. If I see anything that even remotely resembles a problem, I will stick my nose in and do my best to try to resolve it; at times, creating ugly, modern sculptures out of perfectly usable boxes in the process.
I’m not exactly sure why I like to “fix” everything around me, but I can tell you where I think the desire came from. It came from my childhood, which was your typical atypical upbringing. I had very little control over a lot of what I went through, so I started controlling what I could around me: my grades, keeping my room neat, spending time with my little brother in imaginary worlds whenever I could. Things were not the way the adults around me wanted them to be and there was very little I could do to bring any of them happiness, though I tried on a daily basis.
I’m fairly certain my adult need to “fix” things and keep everyone important to me happy comes from this innate desire to keep the peace. And probably an underlying desire to get some recognition that I belong where I am, and more importantly, that I’m wanted here.
The problem is that this is a child’s dream. Not everyone will be happy all of the time. More importantly, it is not my job to take care of everyone else, especially when I’m not asked to do it. My job is to work on the holes in my own box first, so that one day, I’ll be ready to hold someone else’s box contents, when they ask for help.
JUL