Broken But Beautiful!

I didn't ask to be broken. But I was. A long time ago someone shattered me into a million little pieces. My entire life was forever altered before I could even tie my shoe. But I survived. I learned how to glue the pieces back together, one by one. Always knowing that no matter how well I glued, I was never going to be "normal." As I grew older I learned not only how to glue my pieces together but how to build armor around myself for extra protection. For although I may be glued, I would never be as strong as someone who has never been broken. A word, a news story, a sound. Any little thing can trigger something dark inside me that can send me into a swirling descent of self loathing and despair. Months can go by without a trigger. I can see 100's of stories and be okay. But for whatever reason, sometimes I crack. And that's okay. I never asked to be hurt. This is not my fault. I am strong. I have learned to forgive but forgetting is a little different. I never consciously think about certain things. But again, sometimes I crack. Sometimes those broken pieces come unglued. And the loudness and darkness leaks out and I become my own worst enemy. Until I figure out how to piece it back closed. 

Somebody who's never dealt with anxiety and depression usually don't understand. They'll say the past is the past and you can't change it. There's no point worrying about it. It is what it is. You need to move on. But what they will never understand is that we have moved on. We have accepted it. It's just that whatever was done was so horrible it can never be completely forgotten. The fact that we make it our 20's, 30's, 40's, and so on without eating a bullet shows how strong we are. Many of us never purposefully try to end our lives. But we do other things to try and destroy our demons. Many times unfortunately just making more. Drugs, alcohol, sex. We find escapes. Not the best way. But for awhile, it works. And then, God willing, we overcome those things as well. A little worse for the wear, but we survived. And we're good. For awhile. And the next time there's a trigger and the flashbacks start and our inner voice gets dark and ugly and starts to scream, we pray to be normal. We pray that the screaming would just FOR THE LOVE OF GOD STOP!!! And as our pain falls down our face and we go toe to toe with our demon, we pray that maybe this time will be the last. That this time, we'll kill it. Knowing it won't. Knowing that demons never stay dead. They just retreat and gather their forces for their next attack. But that's okay. Because when they retreat, we get to too. We go to our corner and take a deep breath and start gluing again. It's a lifetime battle. But what many people don't understand is that although I hate my demon and want to kill it, I'm also comfortable with it. It's been my constant companion my whole life. It hurts me over and over again but it also pats me on the back afterwards and tells me I fought a good fight. It's a sick relationship for sure, but it's what we know. And we should never ever be made to feel ashamed of that. Again, THIS IS NOT OUR FAULT! We all have things in our past that hurt. But sometimes the hurt is so deep that the wounds never completely heal and the scars never go away.

Recently I had one of these battles. I sometimes can tell when they're coming. I can wake up and just know that it's going to be "one of those days." And the weight of the world sits on me and it takes every ounce of willpower to get out of bed. Sometimes it comes as a surprise. Like this time was. I was just going through life, enjoying the day when I happened to glance a picture that reached down deep inside me and grabbed hold. I thought I was going to be okay. I thought I was good. After all, it was just a picture. But within hours I was shut down. The noise inside was so loud that it drowned out everything around me. And I turned into someone I don't like to be. I became quiet, and withdrawn. Short with my friends and family. I just wanted to be left alone! So I did. I retreated. I couldn't handle the responsibility of being happy and friendly and loving to those around me because I was sinking and my entire being was concentrating on surviving. It doesn't happen often anymore. Sometimes I can take a little white pill or do any other numerous things and I can silence the demon before it gets going too much. But it didn't work this time. So all I could do was fight. I had to retreat into myself, take a deep breath and figure out what I needed to do to feel safe. Luckily this time it wasn't so bad. I was able to talk myself through it. I was grateful for the feel of my husband laying next to me, solid and warm. When normally I can't stand to be touched when I'm struggling. When in fact, even on good, normal days I'm not a snuggler because to be held is to show that you are in need (that's part of where that armour comes into play). I was able to get though it after a night of no sleep and lots of tears. I survived. I know there is something self destructive in me. I know I'm a little more fragile than others. I know these things and I've accepted them. But I don't want to be judged for it. And while my first instinct when someone says something hurtful like "Just let it go" is one of self loathing because seriously why can't I just let it go!?!? My second instinct, is one of annoyance and anger. Because how dare you try to tell someone, a victim, how they need to survive? One of the worst things for me personally is when well meaning christians tell me that I wouldn't need to take a pill if I was truly secure in my relationship with God because if I really trusted in Him I wouldn't have depression or anxiety. Aside from the fact that science can clearly show that depression is not just "in your head" or that studies have shown that children exposed to violence have similar brain activity as combat soldiers, specifically the anterior insula and the amygdala which are used to detect danger. And that children from abusive homes are more likely, understandably, to battle depression through out their lives compared to children from normal homes. But aside from all of that, the fact that my strength does come from His help. That I would have ended it a long time ago had it not been for His help. That when I am at my darkest and am gloved up and in the ring, that He is the only one there with me. The one encouraging me and assuring me that I can and will win. That between me and Him that ugly thing doesn't have a chance. He is the one telling me its okay to be weak. To ask for help. He is the one more sorry than anyone else for what I survived. For He hates evil more than anything. That is what makes me angrier than anything. Don't you dare tell me that I am wrong for using whatever I have at my disposal to fight my battle. Just don't. Because I believe that He did give doctors and scientists the needed skills and knowledge to do what they do to help others. Including a pill that quiets the part of my brain that never shuts up and that you never hear. 

When we ask for help, it's not us being weak. It's us being stronger than you will ever hopefully have to be. I pray that you never have to know the strength it takes to wake up every morning when the easiest thing in the world to do would be to give up. And I pray that the next time you see someone struggling, you try to understand and love them instead of trying to "cure" them or tell them what they should or should not be doing. Just be quiet. Offer a shoulder if they need it and let them fight. If you are one of the lucky few who they bother to even share with, be grateful. It's not something we share easily and it means they care about you and trust you. Don't tarnish that. Know you can't "fix" them. Know that they aren't even wanting you to fix them. They just want you to assure them that you love them and that you won't leave their side until the battle is done. Because we can do it on our own.  We have for a long time. It's just nice to have someone there after it's over. I'm blessed beyond words that God put a man in my life that knows this. That accepts it. Even though his very nature is to fix anything broken. He knows he can't do it for me. He knows when to leave me be or when to hold me tight. He doesn't take it personally. He admires me for my strength. He loves me in my weakness. He gets it. He gets me. And every once in awhile after the battle is done, he helps me sweep up the pieces and hands me the glue so that I can get back to repairing myself. Because that's what I do. Who I am. 

I am broken but still beautiful!