Broken (in the best possible way)

by Jenny Lawson

But we don’t get to pick who we are. I am still as broken as I was before, but with better stories and a little more insight into just how fucked up I am.

The only thing that matters is how you feel and how you’ve made others feel.

And if one day I look at you and don’t remember who you are or how much you mean to me, know that your importance is still as real then as it is now. Know that you are locked away someplace safe. Know that the me who loved you is still sitting on that beach, forever feeling the sunlight. And know that I’m okay with not having that memory right now, because the me that holds it tight is keeping it safe and uncorrupted and glorious. And she loves you. And I do too. Remember that.

so instead I take pills and injections that are toxic and unhealthy but less unhealthy than dying from my own body killing me. It’s like shooting yourself in the foot because at least that way your body will be too busy trying to recover from the gunshot to keep destroying all your joints and sucking out all of your blood.

perception feels like reality when you’re in it.

That’s why nightmares are real to you when you’re asleep even when they seem so ridiculous when you wake up.

Like, I wanted to leave the house voluntarily. I almost went to a museum. That sounds like a small thing but I assure you that it is not.

Even with it hiding I know it is a terrible monster I will always fear.

But mental illness changes “knowing” and “believing” into two very different things,

They go off together on adventures and I am sad but relieved.

almost as easy as the people who don’t understand mental illness always insist that they are.

didn’t enjoy it. People without depression won’t understand that, but the fatigue of mental illness makes your very body a prison.

Forgive yourself. For being broken. For being you. For thinking those are things that you need forgiveness for.

each generation will continue to fuck up their children in their own special way. Sorry. I wish I had better advice here but I think what I’ve learned is that either way you probably fuck your kids up, but if you’re just honest about it it’s a great gift to give them because then they realize that you aren’t perfect either and don’t have all the answers and that it’s okay to be messy sometimes. That’s a hell of a gift for both of you, really.

The world feels safer somehow if we share our pain. It becomes more manageable.

don’t let other people set your expectations for what is or isn’t important in life,

get to decide what is an important milestone or memory and what is not.

keep strong and stay around because once the light is here again I will know entirely that the lies depression tells are just that … lies.