Last week, I dropped my phone, cracking the glass in the front. At first, I was annoyed. At first, my anxiety went into overdrive, beating myself up before I finally started practicing a little self-compassion. And once I got past the self-blame and self-compassion, I looked at the screen in a different way, and saw something I could totally relate to.
Now, whenever the phone is on, there are slight cracks rippling across the screen, reflecting and refracting the light ever so slightly, distorting the image just enough that it is the thing that seems broken and cracked and scarred. And that seems like it is so me.
As I talked about yesterday, my phone isn’t broken, it just takes a little more work. And now, my phone has an obvious weakness about it, one that the whole world can see. And as I open up about my darkness, my mental illness, I feel the same way. I feel as though when the world looks at me, they see the cracks, the damage that slightly distorts the image below. Yet the image is still there. The image is unchanged by the cracks. Similarly, the real me is underneath that damage too.
And as I re-frame the whole issue, I recognize that yes, my phone is cracked. It might be a little more weaker in those spots. Yet it is also unique. Because no two screens crack the same way when they are dropped. Similarly, mental illness creates cracks in unique ways within those those who live with mental illness, creating darkness and horror that only that person knows, but also creating something that is unique and in some ways even beautiful.
Indeed, the cracked images of great art works are considered unique, something that can identify the art as original, as something special. Why should it be any different when we look at our own cracks? We might be cracked, but we are also all beautiful in our own ways.
Have a good weekend beautiful people.