Unbreakable

"I am not unbreakable..."

The strongest people I know are NOT unbreakable. If I were to be totally honest - they are broken. Many of them have been shattered in many ways. They have experienced heartache. They have endured pain. They have held loss and disappointment. They have seen and experienced things that people would avoid if they were given a single second to choose.

Maybe we have gotten it all wrong over the years. Maybe we are all stronger after being broken. On a physical aspect, the human body overproduces calcium to protect the places we have broken in an attempt to heal. The side effect of the healing is that the area is stronger at the site of the break due to the body covering the breakage. In theory, the spot where it was previously broken can not be broken there again. It is reinforced. It has been covered. There are similarities when it comes to muscles and soft tissue as well. Once a muscle or soft tissue has been injured the body "reacts" and tightens around it in order to protect us from hurting ourselves more. This is why injuries require so much physical therapy, once we are hurt and injured, we have to physically work the pain and overprotectiveness out of our body to allow it to return to normal. This is not an instant healing but requires effort. It is not easy and often is painful.

Our minds, emotions, character, and personality are much the same as our physical bodies. After we have experienced life changing moments that break us, we are not the same. We are changed and "reinforce" ourselves in an attempt not to be broken in the same places or in the same ways. We hide our soft places and injured thoughts behind baggage. We take the rejection and pain and cover it to reinforce ourselves against being hurt in the same way. We pull ourselves tight. We reject other's advances and attempts to help us heal for fear that we will have to experience an emotional version of physical therapy. We are often able to see the pain and broken inside of ourselves; however, the fear of allowing the vulnerability to return is often more painful than the initial injury. Our hearts are calloused not from lack of want but from covering and reinforcing the hurt places. We hide our emotions and try to be void of softness.

Some of these walking wounded are so damaged that they see genuine love and devotion but the fear of pain tightens close like the laces on a boxing glove. Their heart laced beneath the layers of glove. The vulnerability hidden beneath the desire to fight and secure one's safety. Unless we are willing to let the gloves come off, stop the fighting, and peel back all the layers of tape and allow our hearts to return to vulnerable- we remain fighters. Hiding our true selves doesn't change who we are, but rather it changes other people's ability to see the previously broken places, the scars of who we are. Scars are not flags of failure. Our scars are a tapestry of places we held on until our bodies gave way when our determination and will held on. Breaking and healing is not failure. It is enduring past when our external strength had reached its limits.

Many women have stretch marks. I don't think I know a single woman who is genuinely happy to have them. I think Kat Williams describes them better than anyone else, "Either you was big and got small, or you was small and got big..." Stretch marks are your skin literally stretching to the point of tearing. Your body was enduring something that requires such a drastic change that it physically couldn't endure and tore...and yet, here you are still enduring more.

Anyone can be a blank slate. Blank slates are bland and forgettable. I think we are more like the Japanese idea of kintsukuroi. Once a piece of pottery is broken, they do not trash it for being broken. The broken and cracks are not shunned and hidden from others. Instead the broken places are filled with gold or silver. The cracks make the pottery stronger and more beautiful as they are replaced and filled with gold or silver. The pottery becomes more than the simple boring piece it once was.

I believe we are the same, we become more precious and more valuable once we have been broken.  Broken people are stronger and more precious like the kintsukuroi bowls. The cracks are still there. They may have been healed and/or repaired even.

The cracks remain, but the soul is stronger.
Being unbreakable doesn't make you stronger - being broken, enduring hardships, surviving loss, remaining steadfast when the storms of life crack, chip, and bend you to the point that you are changed makes you stronger.

Why do you write?

I've had people ask what makes me write. I love words. I love reading them. I write for 1,001 reasons, including but not limited to...

I write because I use words to process things. So many times I have been trying to process life and find myself overwhelmed. I need words. I like the feel of making the written word. I like reading back over it. Letting my eyes wash over the words and decide if I need to move certain phrases down for more impact or just cut them out entirely. There is something about knowing my brain was the inventor of thoughts that I can hold and reminisce about- that brings me joy. I make decisions better in writing. Pro's and con's inscribed on paper or glowing hollow in the computer light as I hear the clickity clack of  the words transform from ghosts of ideas in my skull to skeletons of dreams that continue to evolve and grow into poetry, lyrics, blogs, or stories. It does more than help me. It's cathartic and purges "the crazy" so that what seemed giant and scary and bigger than life in my thoughts now is something I can hold and turn over in my hands.

I write because I am nothing special. I have lived a life with some rather "unusual " plot twists, but so has every one else. Every one has close call stories. Stories of heartbreak, defeat, sadness, near death, and anguish aren't really that odd but rather the usual. I'd like to shamefully think that my words matter.  I figure maybe if I can explain some of my experience in writing someone else won't feel as alone. That maybe the person who thinks there is NO ONE else who has lived through "this"- whatever "this" might be- can see that there is someone else out there who has experienced it and overcame it, that maybe they can rest more easily.

I write because I am so very vanilla and boring that I think that with words I can color myself interesting. I think that maybe I can give someone the courage to continue to fight for themselves.

I write because I have experienced some of the most defining moments of  my life:
-The overwhelming feeling of terror when the plump red headed nurse handed me my son and he wouldn't stop crying. I remember sitting there staring into this tan screaming face thinking, "I messed up ." I worried that I had already failed at parenting and I had only had a child for a few hours. I starting panicking thinking that I was going to be the one responsible for keeping this tiny human alive and I couldn't even shower unsupervised or give him comfort.
-the first day of teaching where I felt myself shake in my sandals as I stood before a group of twenty something 8th graders thinking that there is no way I know what I'm doing . I felt so very small and inadequate. What if I do a terrible job? What if they hate me? What if I'm not really the best person to do this? I can still remember the clothes I had on, the weight of the necklace I made the night before feeling like a prize for the most foolish hanging from my neck. Student teaching felt like wading into the shallow end of a small pool. I felt safe. Standing in the front of my own classroom with no back up, no mentor teacher to help me felt like falling out of a helicopter into a lake where I wasn't sure where the bottom was. Three hours later, I was addicted to the feeling of teenagers looking to me for guidance and inspiration. I felt like an actor on the stage. I had to grab their attention. I needed to perform the introduction of the lesson like an opening monologue. Three weeks later and I was addicted to the feelings of pride and inspiration I got from seeing them grow and learn and become better. Eleven years later and it still feels like a stage when I stand at the front of my classroom.
- The soul crushing feeling of the perfect kiss that made me know I had never been "IN" love before. I felt like could taste the next 60 years of my life in that dark room kissing the boy I had been talking to, but hadn't yet kissed. I stopped worrying about stupid things. I wave of warm and happy poured over me. I didn't need a label or where this relationship was or wasn't going. I found my best friend. I felt like for the first time in ever, I felt like I was coming home just being in his arms. I'd drive across town, across the state, across bad weather for a fleeting moment. I didn't want to just kiss him; I wanted to come home to him. That feeling left me scared and safe.
-The first time I found the lump in my breast and had to go to the cancer center for the ultrasound and MRI. I had to admit there was an issue, something I don't do well. I had to sit topless and random "strangers" would come in and look, feel, and analyze my breast. I felt alone. Thankful for the dimly lit room that helped to hide the fact that in the moments between doctors I would tear up and panic would hit me like a semi truck. I remember the sound of the MRI crunch and bang as it surrounded my half naked body and thinking that this is what laying in the center of a construction zone would feel like. I daydreamed and thought of song lyrics and how they applied to different people in my life. I pondered if I was strong enough to handle the worst case scenario. Fear and worry swirled around me. Dreams of love and a future family steadied my heart.
- Facing my abusive ex husband in our VPO hearing and trying to find the words without crying to explain why I needed the court to protect me. Hearing my voice crack and feeling my throat get tight and being afraid I'd choke on the words as I spoke. Trying to keep my knees from knocking as I stood completely alone and felt his hatred and glare try to burn holes in me. Not allowing myself to look to my left where he stood because I was scared I'd loose any composure that I was faking.
-Laying in the hospital bed on the children's floor of Baptist holding my son as we discussed his emergency surgery that would begin in the morning. I am conscious to smile and stroke his tiny face and use kid appropriate words as I explain what is going to happen. The hallways are silent except for the occasional nurse walking down the hall outside our door. The room is cool and brightly painted. It smells like a combo of orange sherbet and cleanliness.  I think of how ironic it is going back and forth to the kitchen to get more sherbet. The last time I saw anyone eat this much sherbet was me when I was in the hospital for the 5 day stay when he was born. I've let him eat his body weight in ice cream in the last 4 hours and I feel no remorse. I want him to feel peace. I need him to get some sleep. I am hoping I can convey confidence with my words because my heart is raging to break out of the cage of my ribs and fight anyone who tries to touch my son.

These are just title pages of a few of the chapters of my life. I'd like to think that in some tiny futile moment of writing I am more than just words on the page. It allows me to heal some of the broken. Dragging the bad memories out to be lynched for their crimes against my sleep. Removing the unrest by pushing it onto paper. I am forced to face the reality of my life. I think Paul Laurence Dunbar said it best,

"We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile
And mouth with myriad subtleties,"

When I write, I have to give up my mask.  I am vulnerable where I can't be hurt. I allow myself to peel back the layers. I confess my weaknesses . I admit fear and failure. I write because maybe I can face all the pieces of myself, maybe I can accept them. Maybe me sharing my experiences will help someone else who feels alone.  I write because I hope someone else won't feel lost and broken.

I write because writing does more than allow me to process; it changes me.

I'm no princess. Screw the fairy tale.

I have never been the princess type. I never was obsessed with pink. I like green; always have. I used to choose the green gumball in 1st grade when we lined up silently while all the other girls choose pretty pastels like pink and yellow.  I never was drawn to pastel colors.

I never dreamed of being a ballerina. I did twirl around in my frilly church slip; however, it wasn't a princess that I was pretending to be. I always felt like I was flying. I was mesmerized by the way the ruffles lifted and fell around me. I remember just wanting to stay in it and being able to spin around and around. Honestly, I still like dresses that swirl around me. Maybe I still like to feel like I'm flying. Maybe I just love the idea of feeling special and pretty. Maybe there is something just a little bit magical about it that I can't put my finger on no matter how old I get. Not a single Halloween did I wear a pretty dress or crown. I've been a mouse, a pumpkin, Tinkerbelle, Elmo, and a couple 3 times I went as Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. What's not to love about saving yourself and defeating evil while wearing perfectly sparkly ruby slippers?

My dad never called me princess. I never introduced myself as, "I'M A PRINCESS!" or used it as rebuttal in an argument. I never dreamed of some knight in shining nothing riding up and saving me. The closest I ever came to that dream had more to do with Richard Gere saving Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. Maybe I liked the idea of being saved by someone who wanted to love me in spite of my sass and attitude like her?

I only wanted to wear high heels because I thought the sound they made, was cool. In 6th grade every student got to choose a famous person to do a research paper over, and for extra credit dress up as the person. Many of the girls choose Princess Diana, Queen Elizabeth, famous actresses.... I choose Albert Einstein. I wore this amazing wild white haired wig that looked a lot like my Granny McNabb's own hair and a suit. My genius mother found double sided sticky tape and we cut off a snippet of the wig for my moustache. I remember walking into Mrs. Henthorn's English class and getting an immediate reaction from the class. I never wanted to be the princess, but I have always had a flair for making a scene. I think that might be my problem. I like the entrance. I like the scene . I have a flair for the dramatic.

So there is my problem with the idea of fairy tales and dreams of the knight in shining whatever- I never needed him. I didn't need pampered. Maybe I was the evil witch in the wildest part of the woods with a picket fence around my shack. I didn't need the pastel and frills. I didn't need trumpets or big jewels. I wanted the heart of it all. I wanted the simple. I wanted the way the love of my life  looked at me across the room to resemble a Hepburn movie where the music swelled. I wanted the kisses in the rain. I needed to know that someone was willing to risk looking foolish for me. I needed to know I was the choice.

The problem with all that- is that it's a far more dangerous dream than the princess fairy tale. Anyone can give you flowers and whisper sweet nothings when things are pastel covered and smell like perfume. It takes real courage to allow your walls down, to empty the moat of all the alligators of fear and distrust and allow yourself to be truly vulnerable.

Maybe that's the problem with me, I never was the princess; I was more of the pea. I didn't need a castle or flowers woven in my hair. I needed to feel safe. I didn't need to be adored. I needed to be loved. Being feared is easy when you're the witch. Being adored is easy when you're a princess.
Being the pea that causes people to be uncomfortable and demands a scene - that is much harder to love.

Truth is, I never was the princess.

I hate you! I want to push you down the stairs...

I think most people think that depression is a feeling of just sad.
But for me.. THAT was NOT the main feeling.

Depression for me was anger, anxiousness,  and fear. I struggled with the overall desire to yell and scream and make other people feel badly. I think that somehow in my unbalanced brain I thought that if I hurt people with my words then they would feel as badly as me and somehow I would feel better.

There were some people that their very existence and breathing annoyed me.. if they talked or  did anything that might remotely be construed as bothersome to my brain I would desire to push them down the stairs. I didn't want to hurt them. I had no desire to kill anyone...
I wanted the satisfaction of the push.
I wanted someone else to feel as badly as I did inside my own skin .
That maybe if I spread the pain to others, maybe in some crazy way, I would be less miserable.

Depression felt like being constantly exhausted, by stuck with toothpicks holding my eyes open. I wanted to turn off my brain. I needed mental and physical rest but there was never a place where I could find rest.

Depression was sneaky really. I thought maybe I was just cranky or hormonal. I didn't want to admit that I could actually be suffering with depression. The idea of even admitting there might be the problem made me panic and anxious. The idea that my brain was sick was hard to take in. I mean, it's MY BRAIN that in itself made it scary.

I think of my brain as the place I store intimate details of my life: the feeling of sheer and absolute panic the moment that Dr. Friese handed me my son for the first time and he cried and I didn't instantly know how to sooth him, the perfect moment driving down the highway listening to music, sun on my face, white t shirt whipping in the wind as it came in the window while some handsome man sang along with the radio and I fell irrevocably in love with him, the time I called my mother to tell her I had found the second lump in my breast and I felt my throat get tight and the fear felt like strangling as I tried to stay calm and not sound scared as I told her, the parade sending out the other units to Desert Storm wearing my uncle's thick socks under my blue polka dot dress to futilely stay warm and feeling lost looking through the uniforms and sea of faces trying to find my dad who was never  again gonna be in the sea. The idea of admitting that my brain might be betraying me, that was a level of denial very real and very near Egypt.

One day I finally heard myself yelling at my child. I saw in his eyes the fear and sad. I saw the mommy I was becoming.
I yelled.
I was mean.
I was ugly.
And I was everything I didn't want to be as a mom. At that moment, I knew there was a problem. I knew I needed help. I knew it wasn't going away on it's own. I knew I had to tell someone there was a problem. That's the other problem with depression, once you know it's there, it doesn't get any less scary.

I had to swallow as much of my fear and disappointment in myself and make the call.
I had to face the people who I loved and admit I needed help.
The drowning suffocating feeling of admitting I had a problem nearly kept me from telling anyone.

Anyone who is suffering, let me tell you something....
If you were sick and needed medicine to get better- you would tell you doctor the symptoms and get medicine to get better, Right? Your mental health is no different. Sometimes the chemistry of it gets sick, and you need to tell someone the symptoms and have others help you get better.

You are not a failure.
You are not permanently broken.
You are not defective.

As someone who has experienced depression, PTSD, and anxiety- please get help.

Save your memories and find the real you and not the foggy unhappy you.

You are worth it.