Broken (in the best possible way)

by Jenny Lawson

But I can’t stop, because writers write always. Not well, necessarily. But they write.

What we really want is to know we’re not alone in our terribleness. We want to appreciate the failure that makes us perfectly us and wonderfully relatable to every other person out there who is also pretending that they have their shit together and didn’t just

eat that onion ring that fell on the floor. Human foibles are what make us us, and the art of mortification is what brings us all together.

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.

Fuck the shame that comes from wearing your clothes to bed so you’re technically never (or always) in your pajamas. Fuck the people who make you feel bad for glorifying the odd behavior and questionable decisions that make you who you are. Those things are perfectly acceptable.

Preach!

can blame some of this on my ADD, which gives me the attention level of a kitten on cocaine.

If I'm having a good day. ; )

Basically the secret to a long-lasting marriage is memory loss and well-meaning lies and beach margaritas.

our time is limited and that our minds are fragile and wonderful

and unreliable things. Maybe for some of us more than others.

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. For me.

I see my family worry and care but also (as is human) get tired of my being tired.

I worry when this happens that it’ll never go away …

that this is the end. That I’ll always be waiting until tomorrow, when I’ll have strength to be funny or to make sense or to shower.

depression is my forever side dish to any period of convalescence and illness, and depression lies.

I could be dead.

I realize that if I do die I’ll get some rest. That’s fucked up. I know

didn’t have life insurance because I was “a bad risk.”

Me too!!!

“I am a bad risk,” I said, sighing with acceptance.

“You are a bad risk,” he agreed, nodding as he looked up at the stars. “But one I’m happy to take.”

I thought of the struggle and the glory and the sadness and celebration and mystery that still lay ahead of me.

LIFE IS LIKE RIDING A BICYCLE … It’s hard and sweaty and surprisingly tough on your genitals. Also, you’re going to fall a lot.

DO WHAT YOU LOVE EVEN IF IT MEANS YOU’RE BROKE … Exceptions: gambling, heroin, prostitutes, alcohol, and most other fun things.

THE WORLD IS YOUR OYSTER … It’s tough to get into and it will cut you if you don’t use the right knife.

Also, it’s slimier than expected but sometimes you get jewelry. Unless this truism means that you are the pearl and the world is the oyster that you live in? Which would kind of

make sense because pearls are technically just natural irritants and that’s a pretty good description...

IT’S ALWAYS TOO SOON TO QUIT … Unless we’re talking about smoking. Or spending all your money on lottery tickets. Or being a serial killer. Actually, skip this truism. I need more information.

Nothing like a good oar to get your kite in the air.

The mountains are fine where they are, Kevin.

when your husband is like, “HAVE YOU BEEN WATCHING CAT VIDEOS ALL DAY?” you can say, “No. I’ve been following my heart. Literally. Asshole.”

… after all, you are here to make money. And I am here to live. And it seems those things are

sometimes mutually exclusive.

That’s the bad part about having a mind and body that fall apart sometimes … there are so many opportunities for you to deny. To deny that I need medication. To deny that I sent in the appeals and the paperwork until I prove it again and again. To deny to my doctor that you even existed, constantly sending bills back to me saying I’m not covered even though I’ve never missed a payment in my life. Making me deal with debt collectors while you said on the phone that you didn’t know why it kept coming back as “not covered” and blaming the doctors for inputting it wrong but never helping to fix it.

When you first said that I didn’t need the antidepressants I thought there was a misunderstanding, because you were fine with them before.

“But you have to pay a penalty fine for not taking the generic.” A penalty that was even more expensive than the medication itself.

Fuck big pharma

And I paid it. Because at least then it went toward my deductible. Until six months later when you decided even the penalty wasn’t enough and that the antidepressants I was paying thousands of dollars a year for would no longer go toward my deductible. I

cried then. I felt helpless in a system where not...

But it isn’t really “ignore,” is it? Because you know exactly what you’re doing. You know my history. You know every moment of my private medical past.

You receive documents from my doctors outlining a plan of action to keep me alive and you decide that they’re wrong.

The worst part is how cunningly your words echo the terrible lies my mental illness tells me. “You don’t really need that medication.”

We do the hard work. Then we are told that the only doctor you will pay for can’t see us

for two months … or the doctor who gives hope with a plan of action is overruled by you, someone who has never met me, who has never seen my pain, who will not mourn the person who will be lost to this. You tell me that I’m not worth the treatment that is already so hard to find. You say it to so many of us. And sadly, some believe it. Many of them can’t speak about it now because they no longer have the voice to. So I will speak for them.

And we love you for it. We're too exhausted by all of this to say it 99.9% of the time, but we do.

You say you have my best interest at heart. You are not even a good liar.

They don't have to be. Try calling Medicare sometime, I'm pretty sure no actual people work there.

I’m embarrassed for us both.

You are a hindrance—a barrier to treatment—and worse, you are part of the problem. If I were to kill myself today I would first blame my broken brain. And second, I would blame you.

You have that in the wrong order.

But I am still alive.