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WARNINGWARNINGWARNING.

Trigger warning. Lots of depressive shit. Read at your own risk, I’m not a medical professional in any twisted, stretched-over, vaguely maybemightbe way. If you have a choice between my advice and an actual medical/psychological professional? Go with the diploma, dears. Also, I do know that some people use the term breaking in a spiritual sense. This ain’t that. This is breaking for the sheer miserable joy of being broken and willing staying in that condition.

All disclaimers disclaimed?

….

On with the show.

 

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There is a certain poisonous pleasure in staying broken. In taking the broken arm and twistingtwistingtwisting to ensure it never heals. It is not breaking to heal better, it is breaking to stay hurt, in pain, and…. comfortable. There is familiarity in falling into patterns, even (perhaps especially) into patterns that hurt. There is comfort in picking at an old mental wound. False comfort, but sometimes it feels like that is all you have.

Learning to recognize such activities in others is hard. Like the friend who shows you what she thinks you want her to be. If you take that at face value, you might think she’s just a leech, maybe even feel insulted that that is all she thinks of you. But dig a little deeper, and you see just how much she has been hurt by “being herself”. Showing a mirror to the world, no matter how cracked and clouded, means that no one can ever see her. No one can easily reach out and rip into something that she treasures. It poisons even as it soothes, because then no one can ever get in. She is lonely in a prison of her own making and doesn’t want to leave, because the only one who can free her is herself. And in such a prison to admit to her own power is taboo. Salvation can only come from someone who can see through the mirrormaze and save her, in her eyes. And when people fail, it is a mix of her own “worthlessness” and their “unsuitability”.

Learning to recognize such activities in yourself is even harder. It isn’t my fault I can’t find a job. It isn’t my fault I stay here and take the abuse of friend, family, lover. It isn’t my fault that I believe that I’m worthless- everyone tells me so, so I should believe it too. The lies you tell yourself to accept the poison are the most vile you will ever speak. Some people drink to drown out the poison, some people cut and let it bleed away (or so they think), but the cause remains. As fast as you think you get rid of it, you’re gulping down more. I’m crap so I drink, I drink so I’m crap. No one will love me, I’m too fat, I’m fat so no one will love me, be skinny and they will love me, I’m not worth loving so why be skinny, I’m still too fat, be dead and skinny and loved instead of alive and alone and fat.

Then come the lies mixed with truth. If I leave him, I can’t support the children all on my own so I better stay but oh, how terrible I feel. I can’t take any more of the constant grindinggrindinggrinding put downs, I should leave, but they need me they’re my parents so I gotta stay but fuck ICAN’TTAKEANYMORE. So easy to say fuck it and go, but at what cost? The pain of the choice becomes another pain to writhe against and mark your skin and martyr yourself with and it becomes another dead corpse hanging around your neck. Except this one don’t dance and this one don’t grin and it does nothing but drag you down.

I can’t give you a way to fix it. I can tell you what half-assed worked for me, but it may not work for everybody. It depends on how fucking fed up you are with the poison. How tired you are of pain you have. Pain from others? Don’t accept it. Pain with truth? Make your peace, make your position, and don’t bemoan afterwards forever and ever. And pain from yourself? Learn where it comes from. Learn why you hold it so dear. AND LET IT GO.

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