My name is Jiggy. I am a puzzle. I am here but not finished. I started off as an idea, then I was here and this is my reality. When I first arrived, the container I was in to keep me together was unstable, the foundations were weak and unsupported, it was dangerous, it did not keep my pieces in place. My picture was emerging but it was blurred and indistinct.

Then my container collapsed, they didn’t protect me, they were vicious and so angry that my pieces were broken up, some were damaged, edges bent and broken. I was stamped on and marked. Eventually I was collected up by a stranger but they missed some of my pieces. They had fallen through the cracks.

I moved to a different container, they had a picture already but it wasn’t of me. This was not my picture. They tried to put me back together but how could they when some of my pieces are missing and they don’t have my picture? I don’t have my picture either but I know the one they have is wrong. I tell them this. Still they try to force the pieces together but they do not fit. They are damaged and broken.

I am damaged. I am broken. This hurts. I cry out in pain, fear and confusion. That piece doesn’t go there. But they kept trying to force the pieces so I did what I had to do to make them stop. Some of my pieces have edges and I used them to protect me. They drop me, I shatter. I was too hard, too messy, they told me I wasn’t worth it. They gathered the pieces they could find and gave me away. They didn’t concentrate or take care. They shouted and were very angry.

I know it is my fault, they told me so. They lost some of my pieces and changed the shape of others. I am becoming more confused. How can anyone help me to be my picture, to help me with my puzzle until I am complete and together when no-one cares enough to find out what that is?

This happens to me again and again. More forcing of the pieces, more parts of me lost on the way. Some of my edges become sharper, more damaging. Sometimes they don’t even bother taking me out to put into a new container. I sit in an office alone, on the shelf, forgotten. Soon there will be nothing left of me. I am scared I am disappearing and will be lost forever. In the cracks, in unknown containers, lost, torn and broken. I start to use my own edges on myself.

I go to a different container. She holds my container carefully. She counts them 1, 2, 3... “Oh Jiggy, there seems to be some missing, oh and some have been damaged,” she says. I look at her. She smiles at me and tells me she will try her best to find my missing pieces and she will help to put them back together. She wonders what my picture will look like. She wants to see it and help me find out who and what I am.

She talks to me with kindness and I feel frightened. Can she look after my pieces? I am scared to trust her. No-one knows but I have hidden some of my pieces in my own container so they cannot be lost or damaged any more. She starts to slowly piece together my puzzle. A picture of me starts to emerge but it is fragmented, jagged. The picture I see is dirty and ugly. I hate it, I hate her. But she tells me my picture is beautiful and wonderful. How can that be with so much damage and loss? I shout and fight and tell her she is wrong. I make her feel my edges. They hurt and I can see her pain. But she doesn’t throw me away, instead she shows me again what she sees.

She tells me this is not my fault. I did not break or lose my pieces, I didn’t cause the damage. That was others who were supposed to look after me and care for me in a way so I could see the wonderful picture that is me. I am confused. The picture I am seeing is changing. There are still gaps but I can see something beautiful emerging. That is scary as I don’t recognise this. I run, dropping pieces from my own secret container on the way. She follows, gathering the pieces, holding them gently, repairing the damage on her way to find me. She is keeping them safe for me. She gathers all the pieces she has and holds them tightly, even the ones with edges that I know will hurt her but she doesn’t discard them.

She tells me again how precious I am and this is not my fault. Part of me wants to believe her but I am scared. Sometimes she puts the pieces together but they hurt so much I cry out in pain and fear but she is gentle. She stops, she helps me to find a way that my pieces fit together without so much pain and confusion. It takes a long time to fit more of the pieces together in a way that doesn’t hurt so much. She knows I have more pieces I have kept from her. She helps me to trust her to show her my pieces and then we add those to my puzzle.

I start to see my picture. It is not complete but it is me.