You’re thinking of being “broken” as if it’s a literal break, as if something snapped the back of a proud woman and rendered her a hunched-over, sniveling cunt. As if you can push the pieces back together, and they’ll knit whole.
But chances are, “broken” is better thought of as “deformed”. You can’t unring a bell, and you can’t forget what you’ve seen, neither within yourself nor the world around you… you’re aware of things, and what’s more, that awareness makes you wet.
Certainly, with dedication and support —and a fistful of antidepressants to euthanize your sex drive— you can put all of that in a box and tuck it away deep inside you, where no one else will ever have to see. If your capacity for self-preservation is particularly meager, it might even be the best way to go.
Or you can find your level. You can use the fucked up parts of you, rather than allowing them to use you. Find a man you can respect —not just fear, not just desire— and give him your broken bits: if he’s right for you, he’ll turn your shards into tools. Or at least put a fence around your perversions and shepherd you like the dumb animal you are.
Breakage is just a weakness, so do what girls do so well: adapt and compensate.