I’m Not Broken, and Neither Are You

I used to have this secret practice of investigating the DSM - the Diagnostic Statistical Manual for Mental Disorders - and checking that I had all the problems in the book.

Studying the principles of borderline personality disorder, smoking in my hand and eyes wide open, I looked at the diagnostic process.

Excellent efforts to avoid rejection? Check. Stable and strong relationships between people? Check. Your unstable image? Check. Not feeling self-destructive? Check. Suicide behavior? Check. Unstable conditions? Check. Endless feelings of worthlessness? Check. Improper and powerful anger? Check. Paranoia? Check.

Oh my God.

I thought that was a strange explanation for me, until I found a personality disorder.

Failure to comply with social norms? Yes. Doing things for reasons of imprisonment? Always. Cheating? Unthinking? Failing to plan ahead? Oh yes. Anger? Ulaka? Neglecting careless safety? Not regretting it?

Oh my God.

That seemed like a lot, but it's nothing, and I mean nothing, compared to the time I started learning about post-traumatic stress disorder.

Disclosure of an abusive event? Yes. Repeated, uninvolved, and disturbing memories? O lord, yes. Bad dreams? Each time. Going back? Yes. Avoiding harassment-related incentives? Yes! Do you feel isolated? Persistent beliefs about self-love? Persistent negative emotions? Distorted memory and feelings of suspicion?

Oh my God.

A few years later, I added physical impairment, substance abuse disorders, certain episodes of manic disease, and the ongoing cycle between bulimia and EDNOS (an eating disorder not otherwise divided).

Admittedly, some of these diagnoses really had to be canceled, but I was more interested in collecting diagnoses like others would collect stamps rather than achieving medical accuracy.

All the labels I made for myself gave me a strange cool feeling. They confirmed something I had already believed, deeply, inside of me: I was broken. I was in a state of shock. There was something wrong with me.

When I was being beaten, I avoided the distractions, such as the plague. Anxiety, example, and depression. Anxiety did not seem to be a “good” thing to do and depression did not seem to make sense because I was violently injuring myself, I did not stop for a moment unless I contracted mono or West Nile meningitis (both actually happened).

To the observer, these objects may have looked like scenes of attention or erroneous attempts to impersonate Hollywood. But, in fact, this self-examination remained much more secret than most of my traumatized war stories. They were personal. They were made just for me.

Looking back, I can see that the fuel I was trying to diagnose was excessive driving, always finding the answer to a question I could not run away for more than a few hours at a time: "What's wrong with me?"

What was wrong with me, I liked to think, was a perpetual damage caused by childhood abuse that, in conjunction with my seemingly high IQ, created the kind of “Dr. The intricate house ”inside me, can make me feel stressed in an irreparable and irreversible way.

That was good news, but it did not satisfy the question. A question like "What's wrong with me?" it’s not just some domestic house cat in mind. It will not stay quiet and tolerate almost all day, it becomes a voice only if it is not fed for a long time.

No, such a question is a wild, ferocious, unscrupulous wild beast that roams through anything and everything in its path, kills only with the intent to kill, eats constantly and does not end up with anything that smells of nourishment.

What was wrong with me?

When I was twenty-three years old, there were so many answers.

What was wrong with me?

Extension marks the whole body. Acne on my skin, on my back. Small hairs growing about inches above my nipple. Moles on my upper back. Fat throughout the body.

What was wrong with me?

How embarrassed I was with the hat. How I could not stop laughing when other people did. The way I made jokes didn't make anyone laugh except me. How my upper lip trembled when I was scared.

What was wrong with me?

I was completely capable of having sex or committing homosexual acts without alcohol, feeling cold and ugly if anyone had ever seen me naked. That I had negative thoughts, had nightmares, and had thoughts that I had not told anyone. How I drank alone.

How I seemed to be unhappy and, even if I felt happy for a moment, soon the drugs would be gone and I would be back to where I started, wishing for freedom that I wasn't sure was true.

All my happiness, for almost a decade, was made up of chemicals and interdependence. I thought that what was wrong with me was that I could not be happy without buying or begging. I thought I was that kind of person. I thought it would always be that way.

I would like to tell you that I was afraid of being violated and corrupted, I was afraid that the past emotional trauma could make me miserable, I was afraid that I was different from other people. Well, that's what I was saying and that's a good story, but I know now that it was all a big lie.

You know I was really scared?

Deep down in my heart, there was a realization that, even though I was measuring all the symbols in the book, I had no reason to live half my life. Somewhere in there I knew I wasn’t really broken. I was afraid of what my jobs would be if I allowed myself to be a complement

When I was addicted, victimized, diagnosed, I was innocent of anyone. If your neck is amputated and bleeding, you cannot be expected to open doors for people and make the world a better place.