We all break

birds-of-a-feather

We’re all bits and pieces of brokenness, really…

Everyone’s a little broken. That’s life. We experience things that tear us apart, rip us up in side, leave us feeling like we’ll never in a million years recover. As humans we subject ourselves to these situations and put ourselves in harms way to experience things to live. They’re not always horrendous, they’re not always heart wrenching and soul-crushing, but we are all broken in some way.

We lose family members, pets, friends, jobs, good fortune; and we break.

We embark on self-realization, self-discovery, emotional clarity; and we break.

We realize we’re not where we want to be in life (at all); and we break.

We’re hurt by those we love, betrayed, lied to, cheated on, made to feel insignificant; and we break.

We take on too much in life, we over-analyze, we work too hard, we don’t enjoy our free time, we overthink; and we break.

We all break.

It makes us human, but it doesn’t make it any better or easier.

So, why do we let it happen? Why do we put ourselves in harm’s way?

You know full well falling in love can lead to heartbreak, but you do it anyways. Why? Because it feels so goddamn good. Because it lights you up inside when it’s there. Because it feeds your soul and your mind and every fibre of your being. And if you went into it thinking only of the end, only of the break, you’d never feel all that glorious lightness and amazing inner glow. So you don’t. You focus on the good, the experience, the now, the present, and you deal with the break when it happens and only when it happens — if it does.

We all break.

I broke for the first time a few years ago. I broke in the worst way possible. I imploded. I let myself crumble from the inside. Pieces of my soul dropped off internally, and I told no one. I showed no one. I even hid my brokenness from myself, covering it up instead with an affair. I hid from my ex with another man. And I hid from myself in the arms of someone I wasn’t married to. I broke. Hard.

And when all those shards of myself had no where else to go and they came spilling out and the world was privy to my brokenness I shattered all over again in a whole new way. Because, you see, as humans we’re rather like onions in our layers … it was only a select few of my layers that had broken away, I had plenty more to be dismantled. And dismantle they did.

Am I proud of my broken times? Not at all. Am I glad they happened? In a way, yes. I wouldn’t be where I am right now had I not broken the way I did.

We all break.

And I think we break to be better. To learn. To overcome. We can’t know who we truly are, what we really want, until everything is exposed. Until everything is seen, known, heard, felt. And the only way to be all that is to crack it all open, expose it, break it.

How do we recover from the break? Ah, now that’s the question.

I don’t think I have yet. I’ve described myself as many things over the years: weird, odd, silly, funny, intelligent, spastic, non-adult-adult, crazy, driven, ambitious, clueless. But the one description that’s resurfaced multiple times is: broken.

In the beginning, when I’d accepted that I was indeed quite broken, I used it as a defense mechanism. It was a way to keep people at a distance. If I told them I was broken, they’d not want to come any closer, not want to embark on anything more serious with me for fear of slicing themselves on my sharp, jagged, broken bits. At least that’s what I’d tell myself internally as I’d shake my head and say in a coy, playful, yet serious way, “Oh, you don’t want me, I’m broken.”

It made me feel safe. Made me feel secure being broken. Made me feel like I could control the next break. Control the pain, and inevitably remain numb to any sort of connection.

Well, I broke my rule of keeping everyone at a distance for fear of exposing my jumbled bits and pieces. And I did it knowing full well that I was opening myself up to another emotional evisceration.

We all break.

Can we glue the pieces back together? Can we ever truly heal? Can we be whole again?

I don’t think so.

But, if we’re ever so lucky (and maybe luck is the wrong word, maybe it’s more about fate or the universe working in just the right ways) we find another human being who’s equally shattered or someone who at least understands what it means to truly break. Someone who’s there to see the cracks for what they are and not just try to cover them up; someone to pick up the shards, but not try to reassemble them. Someone who’s simply there to support the unstable bits, lend a hand at organizing the fallen pieces, and maybe shine some light through the cracks when it gets too dark in there.

We don’t need someone to fix us, we need someone to accept us for who we are after we break. Because you’re never truly fixed, you’re never truly whole again, but that’s OK.

We all break, because it makes us human and makes us who we are.

The break won’t be pleasant, it won’t be enjoyable, and it’ll hurt like a motherfucker, but it’ll happen; and you’ll be grateful it did in the end. Trust me.

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~ by drivingmsmiranda on February 24, 2016.

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