self-help

Camera Obscura

Posted on by theditchedbitch

TW: childhood trauma

Throughout my (very brief) adolescence I was conditioned to believe I was a burden. My father would always tell me that I was “worthless” and “would never amount to anything”. Everything I did was pointless and everything I embodied was wrong. I was taught to cower in the face of anger. Become small so as to not incur the wrath of someone supposedly put on this earth to protect me. A person I was told I had to “respect” because it “didn’t matter” if I loved them or not.

Many many years of therapy later I no longer believe myself to be a burden, but that doesn’t change that fact that PTSD occasionally forces me back into that frightened, crushed little soul in the face of displeasure or hostility (even if it isn’t being directly pointed at me). It’s a true trauma response and I struggle to find footing when it takes hold. Become quiet and agreeable so they don’t turn on you. Take up so little space you vanish completely. Become nothing…because you have been conditioned to believe that’s what you are.

The psyche is a wild place full of perpetual pitfalls, triggers, and daily struggles. Compound that with the hormonal betrayal of womanhood and an upcoming date that reminds you home is an illusion that dissipates when certain people are gone, and you get a perfect storm of emotional bullshit that leaves you raw, reflective, and very very sad.

@primalscreamingwithfriends : artist

Under the Moment

Posted on by theditchedbitch

It’s times like these when even the most beautiful and fulfilling life feels false and somehow empty. Just waiting for the other shoe to drop, focusing on things that need no introspection, no further thought. When overanalyzing is the norm and your quality of life falters as a result…

That is where you’ll find me.

Bring a woman is exceedingly hard. Our bodies are not our own, and can easily be overtaken by an influx of hormones and turn us into something we don’t understand. Someone foreign, existing just under the surface, waiting to reveal themselves to an unsuspecting host.

Once a month my mind and body betray me. Taking liberties with my emotions, exacerbating my depression, and inflaming my already Chernobyl-level anxiety. I do my best to combat it with all of the tools at my disposal. Tools I’ve gathered from life lessons, therapy, books, meditation and the like. It’s a big boss battle against yourself and I’m exhausted.

My life is so good. I have an incredible parter, a good job where I’m respected, a home I own, animals who adore me, wonderful supportive friends, and a son who still wants to hang out with his (clearly very cool) mom, even at his advanced age. My little part of the world is safe and insular…except (at times) from little ol’ me.

I am my own worst enemy.

How does one go from bliss to busted? From comfortable to insecure? From glass half full to glass half full of dog shit? The difference in my mind and in my heart is uncanny and seemingly inescapable. Until 7 to 10 days have passed and the feeling finally dissipates and I am once again safe. When my full moon has passed and I’m joyously werewolf no longer.

So here I sit, nervous, tired, upset, worried, and in a general state of disarray. Grasping at the last of my coping mechanisms, praying for peace to take me once more. Let me sleep and dream of nothing in the world that has allowed me to thrive when others merely exist. For now I will bide my time, ardently waiting for the promise of a new tomorrow.

Friday I’m in Love

Posted on by theditchedbitch

I’ve loved the idea of love since I was a little girl. Watching romcoms with my mom and spending all of my allowance on period romance novels really encapsulated my tween/teenage experience. I was under the misconception that people tussled verbally, underwent some sort of struggle, and then came together in the end to fall madly and irrevocably head over heels in love.

My whole life was spent in the service of others: partners, children, family, friends, and work. I spent my time dutifully taking on the emotional labor of everyone around me and allowing myself no real reciprocity to speak of. As a child of abuse I never felt as though I was deserving of these simple kindnesses. Fighting depression and anxiety every step of the way I took up arms for those I cared about in pursuit of their happiness, never caring for a moment about my own.

Please understand this doesn’t make me some sort of altruistic heroine lifting up others with nothing to gain. I was someone who needed the approval of everyone around me. The validation. I had to feel useful to exist, and exist I did. I became invaluable to those I was in contact with…my mother calling me her “rock” as I held her hand through her divorce from my cheating alcoholic father, every medical emergency, and a litany of unpaid bills that also became my responsibility. The needs of others forever outweighing my own.

Throughout my life of self-imposed servitude, I cultivated a long line of partners, potentials, and lovers, each less desirable than the last. I’d take the path of least resistance and wind up with some cut rate Romeo, who would bleed me dry emotionally (and occasionally financially). I spent my life settling, knowing that deep in my heart someday there could be fireworks and a great love that I desperately wanted to deserve.

It was around this time that I started therapy. Realizing my worth and my potential, building communication skills, processing trauma, and learning how to unlearn the poison society always told me was acceptable. Until one day I looked in the mirror and saw the accomplished, self-sufficient, strong, empathetic, incredible woman I’d become. A million years and the blink of an eye came together to create something and someone I was truly proud of. My center was found, my peace achieved.

So this is the love I’ve come to crave. The love one feels for themselves after a lifetime of being told they’ll never be good enough, never be a priority. The love I feel for myself as I see the son I’ve raised grow into a shining example of personhood, or the life I’ve built for us, all of the things I’ve overcome, and the gratitude I wake up with every day regardless of my mood or circumstance.

I have fallen in love with myself and it is glorious.

To the creatives who put pen to paper: WRITE ABOUT THAT. Write about being enough on your own. Write about living your best life reveling in the happiness we all deserve. Write about looking inward and seeing the beauty that only you possess. Write about true love. Romanticize you.

Today I stand before you someone forever trying, someone who occasionally fails but always gets up, someone who loves without reserve, and someone who deserves that same love in return. Even if I never find that someone to partner with that can match me in commitment, in passion, and in life, then I am truly content to love myself unconditionally, participating in my own happily ever after ❤️

10,000 Hours

Posted on by theditchedbitch

Life is nothing but a rampaging series of curve balls meant to batter and eventually break all involved. Seems as though every beautiful thing I have becomes tainted and falls apart. Each silver lining behind a cloud is actually the promise of acid rain and noxious chlorofluorocarbons.

Perpetually disappointed, though never really surprised. I feel like I’m living my life surrounded by a general malaise, peppered with bouts of depression, caused by the toxic nature of everything around me. I get out, but it pulls me back in (mafioso intonation intended).

Am I doing this to myself? Is hope just a lying bitch?

According to Nietzsche I am a fucking moron, and I agree wholeheartedly. It doesn’t matter what time of day you catch me; I will forever be making some problematic decision or putting my trust in those who seem to forget my very existence. Pining for something that was never mine to begin with. Breathing deeply of borrowed air.

The older I get the more tired I become. But through it all my stupid heart remains the same. The same naive, fallible, gullible so-and-so it’s always been. Pulled together with rubber bands and bandaids, lovingly rebuilt with glue and chewing gum. Maybe that’s part of my charm. Or maybe my debilitating sense of optimism (that seems to be failing me at this very moment).

Fuck you, Nietzsche.

Fuck you.

🖤