fromjunia

The more people try to fix me, the less I think fixing me will fix things. I am broken: anorexia, bipolar, trauma. Broken things get fixed: Cyproheptadine, lamotrigine, mirtazapine; UT, DBT, art therapy. I have so many people trying to fix me. At last count, a dozen. I pay a lot for that. I’m pretty lucky to be a project for a dozen people. I should be fixed in no time.

You would think that. Except every statistic indicates otherwise, and my experiences track. Maybe I can be fixed. But maybe I can’t. And if I can, it will probably take a long time. A long time of people trying to fix me. A long time being told I’m broken. A long time not being enough.

Will a long time of not being enough fix me?

I don’t think I want to be fixed. I want to be helped. I want to be met on my terms, not theirs. I want to make art about my experiences and not be told it’s wrong. I want to be given vocabulary to speak my experiences, not be told I can’t share them. I want to be a person again. I want to feel alive.

Stop trying to fix me. I need help, but I’m not broken. I want support, guidance, language, ideas, and empathy; not regulation, management, monitoring, supervision, and condescension. And I don’t want to be told that fixing my broken soul is help. No, you can’t fix me, but you can help me.

Please, please, help me.