Why I Stopped Saying I was Broken.

Something about saying how broken I was, seemed like it gave me an excuse to remain broken for so many years. In my mind I was misunderstood and clearly nobody understood me. I was the black sheep of the world, and I thrived in the acceptance of myself as being different. I had shattered pieces everywhere and nobody could tell me differently. But what I didn’t realize was the more I claimed brokenness the more broken I became.

I looked at being broken as something to glorify, something that made me stand apart from everyone else that seemed to be whole. Being broken was bad and good at the same time. There was no other option for me, besides soul ties, shamelessness, depression, physical harm to my precious skin and the potency of it all; intimacy, but with no romance.

It was just what I was good at. I was broken and no matter how far I tried to crawl down the dark road towards the bright light. Low self-esteem, comparison, a lack of self- worth, the need for acceptance and the desire to be recognized and seen always pulled me back like a bungy cord attached to my soul. I held it for a little while and I bounced right back. Brokenness had become my name, it had become my heart, it had become the friend that lived proudly and loudly in my head. For me there was no complete fix, there was only for a little while; and for that moment I was able to feel a hint of what happiness within really felt like until old habits popped it’s head back in and I was right back where I started; feeling empty more and more each time.

This went on for years, I mean years; an endless cycle of sadness, anger, emptiness, settling, anything that was less than who I truly was; you name it, that’s where I was. Left broken and questioning my worth every single time.  

Once I started my healing journey, I mean really started it and actually stayed consistent. I felt the need to stop claiming brokenness. I stopped looking at it as an opportunity to be seen, to be heard, to be accepted and I looked at it as a chance to get help. I stopped saying how broken I truly was and how much I was unfixable and needed to be fixed at the same time; and I started asking God to not only restore me, but I asked God to make me new. I asked God to make me new in him.

I didn’t want to be restored back to what I was before, because even then depression was all I knew. I wanted to go back to who I was when he made me; when he took my soul, added a purpose outside of what I considered brokenness and placed it in a lump of clay, and he molded me.

I realized that having cracks in my clay was not a bad thing, it meant there was room for God to come in and well build in me; place me over a fire and remold me; take away the sticks and leaves that didn’t belong and smooth out my edges blending the dirt and weeds that I grabbed along the way, using it for his good.

That’s how good God is, he took what I called brokenness, and he turned it all for his good.