the Kintsugi Artist

I need her to accept that I am broken. She and he wanted me to believe that I am not. ...maybe it is because he believed I was not that I feel she needs to believe that I am, maybe I just need things to play out this way for my own head, but while she believes I am not broken I need her to understand that I am.
and here is why
Kintsugi: the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with a very strong glue that includes gold.
I need her to be the artist and repairman to put me back together in a more solid and beautiful way. When she says I am not broken she may be speaking truth because she, the skilled expert, sees me as the pieces of a whole and easily repaired, but I know I am in pieces and hearing that -me being the unskilled vessel- does not understand what she is saying. I do not know if I can trust that she will be able to find all the pieces and put me back together properly if she does not see and acknowledge that I am in shards of me.
Unlike the pottery of Kintsugi, I am a living, breathing, thinking being and I have to trust my artist, I have to, in essence, allow her to do her job. I cannot if she does not see me for what I am.
And I am broken
the evidence is in
my job history
my confidence
my relationships
my rejections
my inability to follow through
how I isolate myself
my identity crises
my tears that come so damn frequently that I am not even embarrassed by them anymore.
Those tears that happen everywhere and are triggered so easily. This is not the first time in my life, though it is the longest and the most.
Broken because I know, that if every person or even half, had tears spilling out as much as I do I would never be the only one at the grocery store failing in their fight to hold them back... and guess what, I have, for these last so many months, been the only one. I know because I secretly look for it, studying, researching, because I think I can't possibly be that different. But I have rarely -over so many years- noticed people fighting back tears and failing the way I do. For many many years I had it beat, but no more, and now it's so much worse. So bad that I am not even embarrassed by it.
Why bother being so? I'd never be able to get anything done if I held onto that embarrassment.
And the weird thing about now, the biggest difference, is that they just come so randomly, so easily triggered by the simplest things, while -really- I am hardly feeling, as they well and run. Hardly feeling compared to what it was when I was young. But maybe the intensity of the tears then was magnified by my fighting so hard to contain them. Maybe that is why they flowed less, but I felt more.
I don't really know but my dear sister agreed, it's not normal and there is definitely something "wrong" if that is happening so regularly.
Wrong hmmm... You see, I prefer broken. I would rather be broken then have something wrong with me.
Broken feels fixable,
wrong feels innately flawed and expendable.