To all those who feel broken.
I am convinced there is something that isn’t quite whole about us until we are broken and put back together. Until we have a loss of control and the pain of life refines us, grinds away the surface and exposes the deeper parts of who we are.
A counselor once described to me that holding pain inside is much like holding a beach ball underwater. You can do it, but it takes a lot of energy. Eventually you can’t keep it subdued anymore.
We cannot become whole until we are first broken & put back together…like Riley on “Inside Out.”
So my story is for all those who feel broken. You are not alone, and you are loved.
“Once you go inside and weed through the muck, you will find the real beauty, the truth about yourself.”
-Lindsay Wagner, Actress
(For the sake of confidentiality, details of the following story will remain omitted & ambiguous.)
I sat numb as their words poured into my ears; unable to fully comprehend what I was hearing, or what I felt. I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t cry. Somewhere inside of my soul in a place I could not reach, something broke apart. It felt like a jar of black tar was shattered and spilling over, covering the most sacred place of trust and stability.
I went back to my apartment that afternoon, walked straight to my closet, closed the door and I sobbed. Slowly, unbeknownst to me, my heart started inching toward the top of the hill where I would soon tip over the edge, and spill over like a giant rollercoaster sent on a wild ride. Life had began deconstructing my entire sense of self.
I remember walking in the door to my parents’ house a week later, crying, my heart still feeling raw. As I entered the room, someone jokingly said, “Why are you crying?!”
The crying stopped. And the memory ends there. It all goes fuzzy. I don’t know what my brother said about his trip, or what happened for the next 5 months. I put my feelings in a box with 100 locks. Buried it deep. Erased it from my memory.
By the time I got to college 2 years later I had long since assumed my heart had healed. I would be free, “find myself” like people talk about. In my Pharisaical fantasy I would go into college and be the “perfect” person I hoped to be; I would grow, learn and never make the same mistakes all the other college people do.
But as I started walking through the muck, I found a festering wound still aching.
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