On being broken–no, on talking about being broken

Monday I had a session with a psychologist who was morbidly obese. I’m not proud of myself for being so hung up on this. It was really hard to overlook. I wanted to filter all the information she gave me through this lens. She’s so flawed. Nothing she has to give you is of any value. She has her own issues and can’t possibly help you with yours. Because I guess I can only be helped by perfect people? Or by people who have the same pain that I have? Or who know my pain? I don’t know. But I didn’t want to give her a fair shake. So I kept finding fault with her. I didn’t like her style. I didn’t like her questions. She wasn’t my regular therapist. I didn’t need to talk to her.

I was closed.

She asked me a lot of background questions about myself and my disorder. I’m guessing I’m unusual, because they–royal They, the mental health professionals I see–seem surprised that I’ve had symptoms since I was very small. Since I was two or so. And they also seem surprised that no one noticed. Nope. I was just a difficult, sensitive child. But no one picked up that I had a budding major mental illness. I don’t see why that’s so surprising. Children are molested all the time and no one notices. I was just abused by my own head.

She did ask me something that kind of rocked me.

“You call yourself ‘broken.’ What does that mean?”

William-Adolphe_Bouguereau_(1825-1905)_-_The_Broken_Pitcher_(1891)I really had to think about that. What does it mean to be broken? I talk about myself this way a lot, but I take it for granted that “broken” is understood. I talk about it in a very detached and intellectual way. I’ve done it for a very long time now. There is the whole Seer, the healthy Seer, and the broken me. But what is it, exactly? What is the part that can’t keep it together? I started to get at it Monday. I seem think it has no virtues. That it only causes pain to me and everyone around me, like it’s full of psychic shrapnel or something, and woe to the bystander near it when it goes off.

I must be Jekyll at all costs. Hyding up causes pain to myself and others. When I sat there and felt the pain of having the broken within me, I started to cry. I couldn’t keep it detached anymore. I don’t love the broken parts. I wouldn’t be me without them, yet I don’t love them.

I am struggling with acceptance of them, even in my language. And I believe in language. Exact language is important. It is through naming things that we give them power. It is through naming them that we begin to decipher what has happened to us. It is through being precise with our words that we figure out what is true and what isn’t.

I still don’t know what my truth is about the broken Seer and the whole one is. I seem to think that I can project a whole self when I am well, but that there is always a threat of the less than whole shining through to people and that that projection terrifies me.

A lot to sift through. There’s a lot of meat there that I don’t want to eat. A lot of work to be done. I’m just so tired of this sort of analysis. It’s not fun.


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