Broken (in the best possible way)

by Jenny Lawson

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.

The only thing that matters is how you feel and how you’ve made others feel. And I feel okay (for the moment), and I make others feel okay by being a barometer of awkwardness and self-doubt.

my mind is tricksy and unpredictable, and without pictures and stories and constant remembrances sometimes things slip away. And I slip away with them.

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

It’s a bright spot to a horrible and frightening disease, and a reminder that our time is limited and that our minds are fragile and wonderful and unreliable things.

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.

All of these little autoimmune diseases build up and avalanche into each other, and suddenly everything in your body is attacking everything else because it thinks it’s attacking a foreign body or a weird new plague, but the plague is just me.

I can’t tell my body to just settle down because it won’t listen, 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.

The problem is that depression is my forever side dish to any period of convalescence and illness, and depression lies. It tells you that you are worthless. That life was never good. That you are a drain on the world and that it will only get worse.

If only more people would ask us more things the world would be … well, it would probably just be more confusing.

life is not simple or easily changed by small inspirational words. It is complicated. And hard. And sometimes ridiculous.

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.

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.

APRIL SHOWERS BRING MAY FLOWERS … And also flash flooding. And mosquitoes. And malaria. But you’ll have flowers, so that’s something, I guess.

I used the word “genitals” too much in this chapter so I went on Twitter to ask what a gender-neutral word for junk was and I got three hundred responses in ten minutes without a single person’s questioning why I was asking. A few of my favorites that I didn’t get to share earlier: “niblets,” “nethers,” “naughty bits,” “no-no zone,” “squish mittens,” “Area 51,” “the danger zone,” “the south 40,” “the situation” (with a suggested circular hand motion near said area), “the Department of the Interior,” “crotchal region,” “fandanglies,” “groinulars,” “groinacopia,” “my hoopty,” “my bidness,” “my chamber of secrets,” “my charcuterie,” “front butt,” “privy parts,” “private parts,” “pirate parts” (which I suspect was a typo but now I’m embracing it), and my personal favorite, “the good china.”

Invisible things can be real. And they’re the most insidious because they often convince you that they aren’t.

“You don’t let your pain go to waste.”

The world will get on without your seeing it.

Was giving someone a Brazilian wax, and inadvertently glued my bangly bracelet to her labia.

Surviving mortification makes you stronger and more resilient

Accidentally making shit awkward is such a familiar, vulnerable, and underrated accomplishment.

Whenever something truly mortifying happens, you have a choice. You can let it haunt you for the rest of your life or you can celebrate it, as today’s awkward moment is tomorrow’s fantastic story.

Stet = Yes, it’s fucked up but I like it that way.

the hole leads to a fragile place. A place you can’t protect. A place that can be destroyed,

we’re all shattered in our own way and we all pick up pieces that others leave behind.