The Broken Makes Us Beautiful…

On the last Monday of February, I had the final session of a biweekly therapy group that’s been meeting for about four months. Our only bond before this group was that we all trusted our mental health journeys to the same therapist. We’ve studied all kinds of things together, swapped stories we’ve never shared before or only to a small handful of people we infinitely trust not to use them against us. We cried and we held space for one another to speak without judgment. Somewhere in there, we learned to be less judgmental of ourselves.

Over the past few months, we studied various practices and theories in psychology and spirituality and learned how to view the world through a more realistic, “normal” lens. We explored things we never wanted to touch again, some of which were forgotten, and did so with people we hardly knew.

Our final homework assignment was to write words of inspiration, gratitude, appreciation, affirmation, etc. to one another and bring them along. We stuffed them in personalized envelopes and each of us went home with one, six little notes a piece. As I read my little treasures in my quiet downtown apartment, my understanding of a concept came full circle.

We’re all broken, but… the broken makes us beautiful.

The notes I got came from a place of understanding from beautiful people who know pain, loss, fear, abandonment, abuse, neglect, trauma, and so much more on levels that would incapacitate most. Some of them have survived truly horrific things made worse for suffering them at the hands of the people who were supposed to love them unconditionally.

These people, though, my broken little extended family, quickly grew to love one another fiercely. We’ve done this through communication, honesty, vulnerability, taking responsibility, letting go of things that weren’t ours to carry, talking about the ways the past both ripped us down and built us up. We’ve explored our unworthiness, judgment, perfectionism, control, disassociation, and many other coping mechanisms that, left unchecked, led us to hurt others and self-sabotage because we just didn’t know how to be normal most of the time, whatever the hell that really means.

We thought we were monsters.

We wondered why we felt so unlovable, wondered if we even deserved love. We cried together about why we couldn’t stop trying to be “in control” of everything, even when we knew we had no real power. Together we fought to recognize covert survival mechanisms because, in the moment, we didn’t know that’s what they were and didn’t know another way to create stability and consistency in our lives. Doesn’t help matters that everyone always leaves.

We’ve shared stories of failings in relationships with friends, family, and lovers that made us feel so much shame and guilt that we ended up making even worse choices. At times, we’ve hated ourselves. Every now and then, we’ve thought the world would be better without us.

“To love means loving the unlovable. To forgive means pardoning the unpardonable.
Faith means believing the unbelievable.
Hope means hoping when everything seems hopeless.”

~ Gilbert K. Chesterton

Despite all of our brokenness, the notes in my envelope are the gentlest, kindest things I’ve ever read about myself. Some of them are signed. Some aren’t. All of them are from beautiful people who understand what it means to be shattered, people who are finally discovering how to close those gaping wounds that have robbed them of so much happiness.

And these broken, beautiful souls “accused” me of being an inspiration, a source of strength, something I’d never have credited myself with —

“Your openness, sharing your pain during a difficult time, is a source of strength to all of us. You inspire me to trust my ability to create, and that is something I have lacked for a long time.”

“I admire your strength, vulnerability, and dedication to doing the work. You are amazing. You are awesome.”

In a couple of the notes, I was “called out” for my growth, and as I read them, over and over again, I just cried to know I’d been seen.

“Wow… protection to vulnerability… wow. So proud of you.”

“I was most impressed with your vulnerability — how you fearlessly spoke from your heart. And then to see the change on your face, it was lovely.”

Some of the notes wished great things for me. To continue to discover my worth and let that knowledge be unshakeable; rekindle my love of writing and music and singing; never forget that I don’t have to be self-destructive or accept abuse from others. To keep my passion for life and stay in my power. To know that I was making them all proud.

But the note that made me really pause came from a simple “can you relate?” discussion.

It’s a bunch of crap about sticks and stones – words hurt, too.

Throughout my life, I’ve been compared to a few not-so-nice things. A succubus. Hiroshima’s aftermath. Less originally, a bitch. I think the one that hurt the most, though, is siren.

Sirens, from Greek mythology, were said to have beautiful singing voices. Because of such, they’re associated with bird imagery and portrayed as various hybrids of women and birds. Over time, they were envisioned as more human than bird and often depicted as quite sexual, their bodies becoming as alluring as their songs.

The legend is that sirens would sing to draw sailors in to the rocky coastline of their island. Of course, the ships would wreck and the sailors would drown. You might remember Odysseus ordering his men to stuff beeswax in their ears to avoid hearing their song but asking to be tied to the ship’s mast to listen without falling prey. His crew would have to tighten those ropes again before they were clear of the songstresses. The pull is strong…

In another legend, Hera, the queen of the gods, challenged the Muses and the sirens to a singing competition. Unlike the sirens, the Muses are revered for their loyalty and powers to inspire. When they won, the Muses plucked out all the sirens’ feathers and made crowns from them. Defeated and featherless, the sirens plummeted to the sea.

When Birds Become Fish

When the Romans took on the mythology, it evolved into the more nautical version of sirens we tend to think of. Instead of being associated with the earth and meadows, sirens became linked to the ocean, usually seen as mermaid-like creatures.

Sometimes they’re imagined with horrific sharp teeth that could rip flesh from bone. Other times, they’re more delicately and subtly alluring. No matter what, sirens were supposedly malicious and deliberate.

As an ocean lover and a singer, I vaguely identified with that small piece of the siren mythology, but to be called one, when you think of their horrible reputation for intentional deception and destruction, wasn’t exactly a compliment. I’m not that person. I thought I’d dismissed the snide comment and moved on with my life.

Needless to say, when I got those notes from my group mates…

“I just wanted to say that you do not remind me in any way of a siren. That really bothered me that you were called that. If anything, you bring people to their ‘destruction’ because your sincerity and truth to yourself can be intimidating if/when people are being inauthentic. Whenever I am around you, I feel my true self want to come out. That makes you a muse not a siren. Hopefully that doesn’t offend you, but I think you are an inspiration….”

…I wasn’t ready for my emotional response.

To be told that a comment I’d buried was the note they had to write was so touching. You don’t think about how you take in all those hurtful things (and there have been plenty more) and incorporate them into your mindset. And when you struggle to define yourself outside of others, it can push you to a place where you stop caring what they think about you.

Some would say this is a great thing, but I disagree. I had that “who gives a damn what they think?” mentality. It’s emotionally immature, a denial-based response to being called on your damage and not wanting to own it. Sure, people can get too sensitive or strike out for no reason, but usually, and particularly with people who care about you, they’re asking you to realize that you’ve hurt them. This is not the moment to live a “who gives a damn?” life.

Giving a Damn

It took a while for me to see it, but I finally found someone I cared about more than myself. And there was so much fear in losing that person from my life that it woke me up. To be called a muse instead of a siren means so many things to me. The greatest is that someone sees how far I’ve come.

Singer, yes. Ocean lover, yes. But those who would see the siren instead of the muse are the ones who aren’t ready to do their own work. It’s easier to lash out at the people who make us feel uncomfortable, who challenge our cushy little worldview, particularly when it’s sideways. So many of us are sideways. It was a beautiful thing to have this reminder from my group mate. It’s nice to know people see the work you’re putting in and are inspired to do their own. It’s the person still in denial who’ll tear you down.

I think there’s something to be said for being broken… you know what it means to hurt like hell, and you never want to cause someone else that pain. When you do, you chastise and punish yourself worse than they ever could.

But you wake up one realizing that it’s really wonderful to get to a place in your life where you recognize the broken is what’s made you beautiful.

Featured Photo by Edu Lauton on Unsplash