My 4th grade daughter is writing a fairy tale for class, but the students have been instructed not to create a story in the traditional “happily ever after…..” manner. Instead, they’ve been asked to compose a “fractured fairy tale”. The teacher cited some examples: Cinderella gets a blister from the glass slippers, the gingerbread man is not gluten-free, and Jack falls from the beanstalk and needs a hip replacement. And then there’s the princess who kisses the slimy frog after he promises he’ll turn into a handsome prince, but after receiving the kiss, the frog tells the princess she’s a sucker and hops away laughing.
Fractured fairy tales. What a concept. As a little girl, fairy tales were wonderful to hear. I based my future dreams on the outcomes of these short stories: the sad princess discovers her handsome prince, he saves her from the terrible ogre and he whisks her away to his beautiful castle where they live happily ever after.
Up until a year ago, that was my life. I met my knight in shining armor shortly after losing my brother, and he saved me from the terrible ogre that was depression and heartache. We bought a castle together and filled it with two beautiful princesses and a darling prince. We had dreams of “happily ever after” in which we would spend the rest of our lives together, as happy as was humanly possible. People were envious of our beautiful life. They commented on how our little family “had it all”.
But “all” included a queen with a terrible secret. My secret was my bipolar disorder. I hid it from everyone, including myself. When I was “officially” diagnosed a few years ago, my handsome prince begged me to seek help. He read books on the subject and sought out the best doctors for my care. He tried to slay the dragons for me. But I refused his help because I didn’t want to admit that I was sick. And I let my disease rule my life. And I chased away my shining knight. My shame and denial helped me ruin my fairy tale life.
My life will never be a fairy tale again. My children wish for an “intact” family that will never again be together. My dreams of growing old happily with my husband by my side will never be realized. I cannot afford my castle. I pray every day that this is not my life, that a kind sorceress will wave her magic wand and make everything okay again. But I don’t know any good witches with magic spells that can fix my story or its ending.
My life is a fractured fairy tale. But that doesn’t mean I can’t create my own “happily ever after”. My story is just going to have to take on a new look, and my future will be going in a different direction than I had originally planned. But I vow to still be happy. Even if I can’t use pixie dust to help me get there.