What They Don’t Tell You Is that You’ll Always Be Broken

I used to feel the cracks since I can remember. But it was only a few years ago when I’ve heard it for the first time. Actually it was kind of funny.

My ex said (in his weird-loving way): “You’re broken, honey.” He was not a doctor so it wasn’t about my physical health. If I look back there I can’t really recall the reason for that fundamental discovery of his. It’s not even important for the story, I guess.

The more times I’ve heard it, the more painful it has been becoming. It took me to some kind of bio-energy magician my mother heard of (whose magic didn’t work at all according to what I had kept hearing). Also to yoga and meditation classes - my mother was paying for these to, because she always wanted to help me as long as I agreed to being helped her way.

It took me a couple of years, not more. Back then when I was finishing my university degree, it felt like a giant piece of my life that seemed to never work again. I felt like I was lost. Or not belonging anywhere. Or maybe unloved, disrespected or alone.

And then she (yup, it was mom again) found the therapist I felt like talking to. A nice woman who once asked me why I never wear skirt or shorts. Let me take you back there … it was hot, I had 20 pounds less - some would say I had a lovely figure but the only thing I felt was the awful stress all that loveliness was caused by - and I was going to her office right after my another poorly paid job in construction planning. And the truth was, I really didn’t feel like shaving my legs at the 6.30 a.m. in the morning. So I’d just put on some leggings or jeans or a long skirt and go to work. And that’s what I’ve told her: “I don’t feel like shaving my legs in the morning.” She looked at me suspiciously. “So what?” she said. I made one of my disgusted faces that I was never capable of hiding and just realized that she doesn’t. Nope, according to her hairy calves I’ve never noticed she didn’t shave before putting on a skirt. I was sorry for my face for a moment, so I promised her to prove my words and the fact that I have no problem being in public in some leg-uncovering clothes by putting on skirt for the next session. But I shaved, of course.

Besides this little I-don’t-believe-you negative point she got onto my marking list we really got along. She has exposed some of my characteristics I’d never noticed before. They were far from positive, but she announced them in the way they looked like they were funny or not important or even unbelievable cosidering everything else she found out about me. And I could talk about them. I will never forget her hardly believing voice when she was saying: “You’re so full of sadness. What is with all that sadness you carry in you? How did it get there?” I guess it was her way of telling me I was broken. But I never took it as me being sad or broken, or however you’d like to call it, was wrong like it felt when my ex said it. By then I must have developed some negative reaction for his efforts for helping me out. Some kind of a hatred that come with love caused by being together too long. I knew my therapist only for a few weeks, so there was no space for love or for hate. Just lots of talking. And during these talks, I laughed with her many times. Or at least smiled through my tears. And she always told me so many nice things about myself. Like I was going to make a good mother (which I was never planning to become - not a good, not a bad, not any) because I was so rational (which was probably also the reason why I wouldn’t have kids, ironically). Or that my life plans of staying in this personal-growth-unfulfilling and lousy paid job just as long as I make enough money to start on my own as a freelancer and do everything I loved … basicly anything else than construction ... were the best plans one could have in my situation.

And she listened and talked to me and took notes and read my blog post or two and told me I was great at writing too (in my mother tongue, of course). She also asked me to bring my parents along to the therapy and after that my ex. As she only started to try to help me through understanding my most dysfunctional relationships the 12 therapy cycle my mother agreed to pay for was over.

Several months passed. I’ve quit-lost (have no idea who was more happy that I left, my employer or me) the shitty job. Got my first and hopefully last social support money. Got into some entrepreneurship project with goal of reducing unemployment among my generation. Broke up with the ex. Hmm … I think he broke up with me, I don’t remember this one quite clearly either. Got self-employed. Moved back to my parent’s house. Made enough money to survive. Got another low-payed but extremely self-developing and in-tune-with-my-personal-values project. Met an amazing mentor for the copywriting as well as content, storytelling and even social marketing I was trying to figure out. Met my current boyfriend who doesn’t really mind I’m broken and who found me my first car. Found a great place in the town I adore and started to make enough money to afford it. Got many tutoring hours and almost got used to working more than 14 and sleeping less than 8 hours a day. Proved to my current fulltime client that I deserve more money and got enough to work up to 10 and sleep at least 8 hours a day. Encouraged myself to write some more in English. Took short trips for the weekends and took many many many pictures. Was being encouraged by others to (copy)write even more in English. Got quite self-confident about my writing (although it’s far from where I want it to be) in a way that now people can actually understand what I try to tell them. Maybe even relate.

In the meantime my mother was overcoming the stress-related burnout. The real one. Like those I was writing advice on how to avoid. But she made it. Didn’t ask for any help from me and I never offered it. Because one important thing I was taught in the therapy was: “Wait for people to ask for help themselves. That’s how they can maintain their self-respect.” Sounds wrong, I know. But, actually, when you ask for help, you also take the responsibility of understanding that maybe the person you asked can use the right of turning you down. By asking for help as a mature person you at the same time say: “I understand if you can’t and I’ll figure out another way to do it.” Maybe I could write a story about that someday …

During and after her burnout we talked a lot eventhough I didn’t live there anymore. During these conversations I told her how grateful I am for everything she and my father gave me and did for me and the longer I lived away from her the more I felt like the things she was stressing herself about weren’t worth the burnout. Since then I always tried to gently explain to her how I felt about her worrying too much and find new way to convince her to stop. Or at least make her try to.

It never worked out. Then the Holidays came and took the toll of her again just like previous years. Last week when we spent a few days together I tried to tell her not to push herself so hard, again. She never heard. So after her asking me what is wrong with me and why I am so cranky I broke down and said everything clearly and directly, rationally and evidently. With not even a hint of a sense for her over-stressed condition. That was the last thing I did before I agreed to her last words of that fight. I agreed to stay out of her life as long as that’s all she needs to find her inner peace and keep her health she works so hard for.

And the feeling of being broken came out again. I guess that happens to every spoiled single child too attached to one (or both) of their parents that was always hearing how important it is to have a family they never happened to make.

This is how last week, a day right after the Christmas I realized the one thing they never told me.

I can manage my life, survive, have fun, love, travel, enjoy, admire, care, write. But and even though I’ll always be broken.