I used to explain myself with the missing pieces of me.
This is just one of the more beautiful things I've ever read, & needed to highlight it :D :smug: :happy:
***
I very much did the opposite. This
was me. Full stop. No explanations. Just me.
So why do I find that whole concept so beautiful? That's what I've been trying to do for the past few years. Explaining me to myself. With the missing / broken pieces of me. It would have taken me about a zillion paragraphs to even get close to what you managed to capture in a single line.
Story-Time With Friday
((AKA Not super relavent, just me thinking out loud about the topic at hand))
So I've had this memory in my head for days (or since last night? Feels like days), possibly from the same post you're referencing. I was dating a trauma therapist. Disaster response colleague. My team was zodiacking about, and shifting rubble, and finding survivors & tagging map locations for recovery. His team was working with survivors. Anyhow, so we're in this hotel room in paradise in hell, and I'm kicking it in my knickers (for why IDK, sex, or laundry in the sink, or in need of a bikini... I just remember being clean-clean-clean & sated & fed & happy / life was good), so I'm just kind of dancing around the hotel room and he just
looks at me and says "You are sooooooo f*cked up." Like he was seriously disturbed, bothered, concerned. This was some big fawking deal to him, and I remember my response clear as day. One of those instantaneous full body shifts. I just
grinned at him, eyes all sparkly. Because I took it as a
compliment. Told him he loved it, took him to bed. Hardly the last time we spoke of it. Most of the time I could distract him with sex, because it really, really, bothered him ... But every single time... It really, really didn't bother me. Yeah. I'm f*cked up? So? This is me. This is who I am. I didn't understand him hurting over me, or being angry at himself, because I was all 12 shades of broken. I was fine. FFS, me. Here. Standing in front of you. Living. Breathing. Working. Loving. Fine.
I am fine.
He understood me better than I understood myself, back then. Later, much and many boyfriends later, I remember trying to explain myself to someone. <shakes head> (I didn't say I've never done it, Ive made that mistake a few times, even though my knee jerk is the opposite & equal mistake). No bueno. Never works. If I HAVE to explain something? They're not going to get it, IME. Either they understand, already, or they never will. At least not by my telling, although maybe by someone else's telling, or their own living. They may well -like the bloke from the paragraph above- understand
better than me, Im not very smart, so that happens a fair bit. But if they don't understand? Before I try and explain? They're not going to. So explanations are pointless. This is me. This is who I am.