Broken
“I like that you’re broken, broken like me,
Maybe that makes me a fool.”
-lovelytheband, Broken
Do you think it’s better, to be the broken one? Or the one that picks up the pieces?
I feel like in my life, I am rarely seen as the broken one. I have been told more than once that I am a rock for people. I am the big sister, the planner, the coach. I stand as tall as my 5ft 3in frame will let me (or I get a stool). I smile brightly. I hug tightly. I look for moments I can extend kindness and expel doubt. I try to bring light, to everything, when I can.
The truth is though, I feel like I am often one of the most broken people in a room. The rooms I stand in are usually pretty privileged ones, but all the same. Being broken is relative. We all have our battles, some worse than others. I feel like I am constantly looking for the last piece of myself. The piece that chipped off and fell away somewhere between taking my first step and taking my first step into the world as an adult. Where do we lose these things? We come into this world so fresh and whole and fearless. Or do we? I suppose that’s the debate - nature vs nurture. I happen to think it’s a little of both.
I feel like my kind and cheerful husband got the short end of the stick because he is the one who has to see me fall apart. I don’t hide my tears from him. I let them fall, making tracks in my make-up and stains on my shirt. He is the one I snap at when I am not controlling my reactions. He sees me on days when I can’t hold myself up. When I come home and lie on the bed, unmoving, unable to find the motivation to do anything of purpose. I feel like all I can do is stare at him, because I’ll never really be able to tell him how it feels.
When I meet someone who I know understands it, I want to hold onto them so hard. I want to talk and talk and figure it all out. I want us to tell stories and secrets and put each other back together, one piece at a time. I want to find that place of rawness, where the tears have dried on our faces, and we’re exhausted from all the emotion, and we can look one another in the eye, and know that whatever we’re feeling, whoever we are, that it’s right and true and us, and it’s all going to work out. I haven’t had that in awhile.
Did I just get lucky? Did I just happen to fall into groups of other humans who aren’t as wayward as I am? That could be one explanation. More likely though, it’s that we don’t give ourselves permission to share what is really going on for us as often as we need to. When we gather for a dinner party, it’s rare that the discussions revolve around mental health. It’s not really the good time attitude. Maybe more of my peers than I realize are experiencing the same feeling as me. They too are looking around with a bit of Imposter Syndrome, thinking “How the heck did I get here?” We all end up where we’re supposed to; I feel like if I didn’t believe something like that I’d really go nuts. With that in mind, it’s hard not to remind yourself that those challenges are there for a reason. I have had a few extra hard moments I look back on, ones I think I could have done without. Some were in my control, some were not. Either way, those are the ones that seem to serve me most when I am offering advice, or up against a new issue of my own. Like doing reps in the gym, when you pick up baggage and put it down again more than once, it starts to get lighter. Or more accurately, you get stronger.
I often think of the late Leonard Cohen’s iconic words “There is a crack in everything/That’s how the light gets in.” I feel like I have so many cracks sometimes that I am shining from the inside out. Maybe that’s why admitting it scares me less. A lot of it is already illuminated for everyone to see, from years of those cracks getting bigger and wider. Although at the same time, I feel like I can see more of my darkness than ever before, and I don’t like it. Anyone else feel that way? That years of introspection exposes parts of you that you actually wish had stayed buried. What do you do with them then? I am juggling a few shadows that are fighting for top slot. So far, my best strategy has been to name them, recognize them, and get to know them. I haven’t owned them yet. Perhaps I’d still like to think that I can win against them. What is winning though? The way I am looking at it now, I feel like winning would be to banish them. A real win would be understanding and acceptance though. Would be to communicate them truthfully and know that they don’t make me wrong or weird or…broken. That they are a part of my whole. Their darkness gives me depth and colour and makes me a better empathizer.
The same way someone can be a saviour to one person, and can break down someone else, this polarity exists in ourselves. I can still be that rock for the people who need it, even on days I feel like I am more like sand. And vice versa for those I turn to in a crisis. I do know, even though I forget sometimes, that any time I feel like I am missing a piece, that the best place to look for it is within.
(You know what has been great? Since I started writing this post, I have come across all kinds of little reminders and messages about how broken things are in some way better. The most beautiful reminder I came across was learning about Kintsugi, “…the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with lacquer dusted with gold, silver, or platinum.” (wikipedia) The philosophy behind it is really lovely. It is the “…embracing of the flawed or imperfect.” It purposely illuminates where the item was previously broken, showing that it can still be repaired and be useful after it has broken, and celebrates the uniqueness those lines give to the piece. I love that. This discussion of being broken has been a reflection. A lot of my articles are born from a thought that blooms from somewhere in the back of my brain that I get an urge to explore. By the end, I come to a conclusion or two that help me resolve my wonderment, or at least get to know a little more about where I need to go with it. That is one of my favourite things about writing. It will often lead you somewhere you didn’t know you knew the way to. Thank you, readers, for giving me a place to discover myself. I hope you discover something too.)