The Breakdown

“…there’s beauty in the breakdown…”

A fragment of lyrics from an old Frou Frou song that randomly surfaces in my mind. The words repeat themselves a few times, seeming to originate from somewhere else…like a whispered suggestion from someone in the distance. I grasp on to them momentarily with my conscious mind, wondering at their strangeness yet at the same time grappling with the way they seem to resonate with some part of me. This part of me desperately urges my mind try to hold onto the words whilst it fails to hold onto much else – letting reason, comprehension, control slip quickly slip away and fade into something unrecognizable.

They represent reassurance, or some semblance of hope at least, as my body gradually becomes lost in the confusion of my thoughts…no longer an entity that is my own but something that feels indescribably out of my control…control that feels increasingly lost in my heaving chest and pounding heart, my gasps for breaths that no longer come so naturally, my trembling hands and arms that feel stiffened by the overwhelming tingling that slowly starts to spread, a tingling that paradoxically feels heavy and suffocating while making me feel light and non-existent, as if my body were not even touching the surfaces on which it were seated, and of course, the tears. The tears that form an ever consistent shield over my eyes, separating me further from my surroundings as they blur my vision with an unwelcome yet unstoppable stream of translucent distortion. I let my mind fixate on the breathing, the quick and sharp in and out gasps that fill my chest, a motion that feels at least partially of my doing, revelatory of some intentionality and control.

Is this the breakdown, I wonder. Is there beauty in this?

Or does the beauty only come from a certain kind of breakdown? The kind that leaves you so broken and shattered that you are left with no alternatives but to pick up some of the pieces and slowly mend them back together. I can see beauty in that – in the poetry of coming to find understanding in the pain, to let oneself be completely and fully vulnerable to it. In vulnerability, one inevitably finds meaning; something constructive and valuable – perhaps all the more valuable because of the struggle it took to find it, the pain that was necessary to become a stronger person and arrive at the new depths of enlightenment that naturally emerge from the experience.

But what if the remnants of the breakdown are not shattered fragments of self waiting to be pieced back together, but simply dust – a dust that dissipates into something unrecognizable, the particles of which quickly blow away and scatter in every direction as you frantically try to scoop them back together, leaving you with nothing but empty space where once there was at least something tangible?

In other words, what if the breakdown renders you unable to piece parts back together because the parts no longer feel like you. What if that fading semblance of an identity, now barely existent, was the one thing keeping you sane, giving some direction to your functioning in the world and your relationship to it – but which seems to become ever more distant with each breakdown. And rather than creating the space for the formation of new identities, leaving you only more lost each time.

I think we often don’t even realize the role that our identities have in our lives until we find them changed or become more consciously attuned to their malleable nature. More process than noun, they represent an ongoing construction, deconstruction, reconstruction, and sense-making of the spaces we occupy in the world. They consist of our self-perceptions and the stories we weave of our own lives and experiences in order to arrive at something coherent and whole. But in the single word ‘identity’ lies manifold definitions and stories, rendered all the more complex by the continuous influences of the identities imposed on us from the outside – the identities we have to other people, or, on a more general level, to the societies whose structures and norms we function within.

Yet despite such illusiveness, malleability, and subjectivity, this concept we’ve come to know as ‘identity’ holds so much power or latent potential for influence (both positive and negative) within our lives that it’s no wonder we come to view it as something so concrete and definable. In my own experience, at least, feeling the loss of this thing that once felt so concrete was enough to make me question reality itself…leading me to the realization that my so-called ‘identity’, or subconscious understanding of self, had become in a way my reality. And honestly, I don’t know that I can even put into words what I mean by ‘reality’ or losing this sense of what is real, because what the heck does ‘reality’ even mean? And yet, clearly I thought I had some grasp of it at one point, otherwise losing it (whatever ‘it’ is) wouldn’t have felt so deeply disorienting.

And when I speak of reality, and identities as they relate to our connection to the world, I’m not even talking about identity in the straightforward or obvious sense (things like race, class, gender, sexual orientation, culture, religion, relationships, ethics, etc…not that any of these are by any means even straightforward or definable in themselves) but identity at an even more basic and deeply embedded level…the kind of identity that runs so deep that we rarely even come to question or realize we define ourselves by it until the assumptions upon which it is based become shaken – for instance, assumptions of what we would do or how we would react in certain situations, or assumptions of how we think or feel and how much we control those thoughts and feelings.

And when even the deepest assumptions you have of yourself suddenly become malleable, what do you have left?

I’m not really sure at this point. And I’m also not sure whether it is necessarily a bad thing. From my own experiences and conversations with others, it’s clear that we all seek and crave a sense of identity – and yet, when having these conversations, it’s not always clear, even in hearing how people seek out these identities, why they feel they need them so much to begin with. I can understand striving for identities that contribute to a sense of purpose or lead someone to forge or feel part of a community, or holding to those that acknowledge the struggle or common experience of a certain community, but when it comes to identities that have to do with simply knowing who or what we are and what makes us ‘us’, what true value do they have?

While I have yet to piece together the remnants of unrecognizable scattered dust from my own previously assumed identities, I can at least say that there is something freeing in admitting to the chaos and uncertainty that is being human. I also don’t know that I’ve found beauty in the breakdown, nor have I found peace or enlightenment in the uncertainty, but maybe grasping for such things would ultimately render the uncertainty somehow shallow and in a way, less powerful, by assigning a sense of meaning and definability to something that has no real definition. Most of us are so quick to take the messy, confusing, disorienting, and puzzling of our lives and mold them into something we can understand or relate to or take meaning from – and not to say that these efforts and search for understanding are not critical, but more that the problem lies in our vision of what the end result will be – the implicit assumption that our search must ultimately lead to clarity. But would we still continue to strive and search even if we knew there might never be an answer?

And maybe, instead of constant searching and categorizing and identifying, there is more value in striving to take each new introspection and self-insight as it comes and not attempt to place it in a box or piece it into our overall self-concept…

…essentially, maybe it is better to strive simply to be.

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