So today I’m tackling that annoying idea floating around – you know, the one claiming broken folks are somehow more evolved. Total nonsense, right? Decided to dig into my own mess to see why this myth sticks and how to actually move past it. Here’s exactly how it went down.
The Bitter Coffee Moment
Sipped my coffee this morning, scrolling through feeds. Saw yet another “your trauma makes you special” post. Felt that familiar irritation bubble up. Grabbed my cheap notebook – the one with coffee stains already – and wrote at the top: “MYTH BUSTING TODAY”. Because honestly, my past feels like carrying a cracked brick, not some damn superpower.
Digging Up Old Wounds
Sat at my cluttered desk. Opened the bottom drawer where I shove stuff I ignore. Pulled out:
- A crumpled therapy bill from 2018
- Old journal entries screaming in red ink
- Photos from when I smiled too wide
Flipped through pages. Remembered how “broken” felt: missed deadlines, burned friendships, constant exhaustion. Not evolved. Just surviving.
Testing the “Gift” Theory
Decided to test the myth. Tried “harnessing my pain for creativity”. Wrote a poem about my lowest point. Result? Three lines of crap and a throbbing headache. Emptied the dishwasher instead. Reality check: coping mechanisms aren’t magic. Loading plates doesn’t make me Rumi.
Fact-Checking My Gut
Googled stuff like “does suffering increase empathy?”. Found studies saying sometimes, maybe. Also found plenty showing it breeds bitterness. Recalled snapping at my neighbor last week because her laugh reminded me of someone. My “evolved empathy”? Zero. Just guilt. Scribbled in notebook: “Pain ≠ Wisdom. Often = Baggage.”
The Actual Moving Forward Part
Felt like crying. Didn’t. Made myself a simple action list:
- Called therapist. Booked session.
- Texted my sister: “Hey. Still processing stuff. Might be distant.”
- Wrote down ONE thing to fix today: clean my damn kitchen sink.
Not sexy. Not profound. But concrete.
Closing Thought Dump
Sank into my lumpy couch later. Realized the myth isn’t just wrong; it’s heavy. Like saying carrying bricks builds muscles while your knees buckle. Healing isn’t about pretending scars are glitter. It’s admitting the weight sucked, setting the damn bricks down, and limping forward anyway. My notebook’s final scrawl: “Stop romanticizing the break. Fix it.” And I’m trying. Messily, angrily, but trying.