kintsukuroi

It was for my sixteenth birthday that my parents bought me that mug. It was big and white, and on it were my name and a rainbow. The mug followed me to college, and into my adult life.  I don’t remember how many years into my marriage I was or how many children we had, but I remember vividly the feelings of fear, of dread and of shock rolling over me very ordered, yet seemingly at once as I watched him pick my mug up from the counter, hold it in the air, and- as I begged him not to- slam it down on that counter and watch it shatter into  many, many pieces.

I think I remember that he was instantly sorry. I’m sure I remember not caring how sorry he was at that moment. It didn’t matter; the mug was gone, I was going to forgive him, and then convince myself that whatever I said before he robbed me of the memento of my sixteenth birthday was what caused his outburst, and therefore I was responsible. Taking responsibility every time he broke something or frightened me was the only way I could convince myself that I should stay. After all, I knew I  would be able to change, but I could never change him. I swept up the broken pieces, and I threw them away- along with all the other things he broke in anger over the years- and tried to start over as if I was never hurt.

One of those things we veterans of domestic violence share in common is that we celebrate any act of non-abuse as an act of kindness. As long as we have days, weeks, or even months when there is not a violent outburst, we convince ourselves that our significant other is good to us. And when they are good, they are very, very good. Then one day we realize that non-abuse is not good enough. We decide that we don’t want to ever confuse again a normal act of humanity for an expression of kindness. We sweep up the broken pieces one last time… but this time, instead of just tossing the porcelain into the garbage, we stand in front of the mirror, we see the hurt, and make a commitment to go deep, dig that hurt out, and replace it with something beautiful.

What has happened to me is not my entire story. How my spouse treated me, or how many things he broke- including my heart- is not who I am. My response, and the choices I make are now my story.

Someone once told me to love like I’ve never been hurt- to love with all a whole heart instead of with a broken heart, and to give myself  as someone who doesn’t know what hurt feels like.

No, I am going to love like I’ve been hurt very, very deeply. Because I have been wounded,  I know how far is the depth of my heart. The pain went deeper than the love the first time around, and now that I have gone there, and allowed those wounds to heal from the bottom up, my restored heart is stronger and more capable of loving and giving than it ever was before it was broken.

The Japanese have a tradition of repairing broken pieces of pottery by using gold to fill in the cracks and spaces between the porcelain. The result is a stronger vessel that is less likely to break again. The repaired vessel is also considered as beautiful, if not more beautiful, than the original with the strands and veins of gold showing on the surface.
This art - this necessary practice - in a world where something precious cannot be replaced nor simply thrown away is called “kintsukuroi.”

I don’t want pity for my past. When people look at me, I don’t want them to see how I was broken by the abuse or the trials or the sorrow. I want them to see only how I have been strengthened and restored.