How do you mend broken pottery that was formed with a hidden flaw? Not at inception, but as a young child.
I'm supposed to be broken. I'm supposed to be beyond repair. I'm supposed to be dead.
Those are the words that the world wants me to continually hear.
Maybe I was built this way on purpose?
Maybe I am just this way and there's nothing more?
Maybe the childhood molester that posed as a dear family friend was supposed to destroy my hopes at childhood?
Maybe I am broken?
But I'm not. I'm fragile. There. I've said it.
I. Am. Fragile.
Not like glass, that shatters into a million pieces and scatters to where bare feet find sharp particles at the most inopportune times. But like clay. Dirt and mud from the ground that once hardened are such useful, deep objects. And when they fracture, they fall into large pieces - sometimes to be collected and glued, taped, epoxied back together again.
Each major hurt has taken it's toll. And I know that the seams of the fractures are still places that can be scraped open, burned easily, and yes, split back apart without much warning. They are the places I protect, but they are much stronger than they ever have been. It takes much to get to them and even more to truly wound them.
He did. My family has. My wife. And most of all, myself.
It makes trusting the most difficult task that I will ever do. Sure I have trusted small parts of me with many people over my lifetime. Giving is a gift, whether it be time, and ear, some of my story. But to this day I have only had three people (E, E and J) that have gotten even close to gleaming all of what I hold so close. It terrifies me to think of all of me exposed. How can anyone ever love the terrible scars that are so much a part of me. The way I am is part of the madness that a little boy found his only escape from what he knew was wrong and yet had no way of protecting himself. So the adult boy damn well would. I have protected the deepest parts of me from everyone save a select few. Don't ask, I won't tell you. Not just the events started in 1977, but the way my entire life would be wound from those beginnings as much as the upbringing I had in a good, solid home.
But there is a need as humans to connect, to find others who share your own story. And in those I've found with similar life "DNA", I have found encouragement, hope and sadness at times. There was a man I never met who I feel I know his struggles deeply, cried over his hurt and held the hand of the one he loved as I heard his story. Another that I ended up having as a roommate and mentor along my path. One friend, a serious 'rock-star' type, who is one of the deepest men I've ever known, once you get past the glam!
So I went to a counselor, a first time visit to see if I 'fit' with this guy. He seemed younger than most of the ones I'd had in the past. I didn't really know him at all, but I chose to just unload my story. I was going to give the abridged version, but he encouraged me to not hesitate and just talk. He listened as I relayed the full, real, detail laden story of me. He sighed at the end and said that most everyone he's ever counseled that had a similar story wasn't able to function at a high level, or was bitter and defeated, barely able to do "life". He looked at me and said I was "Amazing", that I had been through so much and yet still had an immense desire to LIVE!
Crying as these words are coming out. I am so thankful for those who've helped me realize that life is worth living, that there is a God. And a bigger picture than I always understand. But I still don't always know how to get beyond me.
I'm safe in here. I'm alone a lot, but I'm safe from the bullshit of life. I want to be part of the bigger picture, and I have done pretty well. I've stayed upright, and working, and at times even had joy. But I'm still a hot mess sometimes. There's only so much one person can handle, and my limits have been over-exceeded for the better part of the last two years. And in typical fashion of any of us that have lived and dealt with the trauma that had to be hidden, my outsides may look just fine, but inside I was continually praying for a lessening on already overtaxed braces. Slowly starting to fracture me inside-out.
The Joys of a new little one and the strain it can put on a young family.
The Loss of communication between two people.
The Sadness of my two kid's new journey without their mom.
The Excitement and Stress of moving, renovations, budgets and hurts that are formed.
The Terrible tragedy of Divorce. A road no one ever wants.
So what do you do?
Corner me and I pull further in. And when I can't breathe, whether it be because of something I can't understand or seem to accomplish, or because all my internal energy is being used to just continue on my path of staying me, alive, breathing the best I can, I start to break. Fracture.
But there is always the hope of restoration...
The Japanese have an artform that fixes the cracks, the fissures in broken pottery with gold, platinum or silver lacquer. Those lines of defeat now shine with the lusterous glints of a careful hand. A hand that took the time to realize that "there is still good in him" (blatant S.W. reference). There still is good in me. Still a lot of hurts and flaws, but a hope, a "new hope" even! I'm saddened by all of the ways that my life didn't turn out to be like everyone in my church growing up thought and professed it would be. Not because I really wanted that, but because I could never fully express the ways that the church, without realizing it, helped make part of the monster that reared it's ugly dragon head inside my soul. Took MANY MANY years to get that out of there!!
So I don't always know the answers. And I can't always open up my heart. But I have. I have loved. I have lost and I still try.
I don't think that Jack Nicholson was totally correct with the statement "You can't handle the truth", but I do know that there will be only a select few who may even hear it. I still fear the fracture. Fear the break.
But at the same time, what is life without sharing a part of you with someone...
...if they can stop and see me inside the lines of broken clay.
Kintsugi: The Centuries-Old Art of Repairing Broken Pottery with Gold
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