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

The KKK Took My Baby Away

Posted on by theditchedbitch

TW: abortions, trauma

I watch a lot of movies that portray motherhood as something a spouse or a partner is happy about. Surprise honey, we’re pregnant…smiles, tears, hugs, and general excitement mixed in with limitless hope. It’s a beautiful journey beginning with two and ending with one (or more) bundles of “joy”.

This has never been my experience.

I was 18 when I found out I was pregnant for the first time. Michael and I were children using any and all methods of birth control, smoking two packs a day, and generally just being dumb kids. We were immortal, we were poor, we were “in love”, and we were entirely ridiculous. Though we were the same age, he was a year behind me in school (December babies always get a raw deal). So I’d stay at his house, sometimes work, smoke Virginia Slims with his mom, and wait for him to come home from school. Honestly, I barely remember the time we were together…but I definitely remember that day.

It was the day his teenage sister was forcibly taken to rehab. After the events of this incredibly heartbreaking and massive debacle I somehow found out I was pregnant. Michael yelled at me, as though it was my intention or somehow my fault, while I’d been the one on birth control, the one going to Planned Parenthood for other forms of contraception (condoms, etc). In his words somehow I’d made the mistake, and I was going to be the one who had to deal with it.

So I did.

I had a surgical abortion. I was terrified. I was so young and navigating the protestors making a hard decision harder didn’t do anything to bolster my confidence. I’ve blocked out so much of this (and I won’t go into too much detail just in case that’s triggering for folks). Suffice it to say that I was in immense pain, terrified, and I spent the next month in bed. I quit my job and spiraled like nothing I knew, or had ever known.

Cut to eight months later…

The day was spent throwing up. It had been a bonkers weekend and Halloween meant getting blackout drunk and fighting on a stranger’s lawn until I was shoved into a friend’s car and sent home for being “too drunk”. Michael stayed at the party and it became his mom’s task to get me undressed and into bed. At one point I fell backwards into the tub, pulling down the shower curtain on my head, giggling like the asshole I most definitely was. Though I had been insanely drunk the night before I assumed my super alter ego No Hangover Girl would emerge yet again and save me from the plight of those less fortunate than myself. Not this time…I was sick as hell and no amount of greasy food was going to stop this never ending nightmare. Even drinking water made me throw up, which is a huge pain in the ass when you’re clearly trying to hydrate. It was getting late in the day and I couldn’t stop throwing up. It didn’t feel normal. Somehow we got a pregnancy test (again, my memory is so spotted), I took it, and there they were: the two lines indicating that our lives as we knew it were over.

I knew in that moment that I couldn’t have another abortion and remain mentally intact. It was all too much for a teenager to handle. Same contraceptives failing spectacularly in the same way (my mother would go on to joke many years later that my son probably came out with the last of my birth control pills in his hand just to spite me). Michael screamed at me. Again, it was all my fault. Mine and mine alone. I called my mother around 11PM crying, so very afraid, borderline hysterical, and my angel mother talked me down. She told me that everything would be ok and at the end of the we’d have a beautiful baby who would be the most loved. We didn’t tell my dad until I was around 8 or 9 months along. He told my mom it was her fault. We never spoke about it again.

So no fanfare from the crowd, no tears that weren’t anger or hurt, and no congratulations. Just cold hard truth, my mother, and me.

Eight years later I was married (not to my son’s father, I was at least smart enough not to exacerbate that horrible shitshow any more than we already had), and in the emergency room. I’d had pain in my guts my whole life. A “spastic” gallbladder and a lifetime of promethazine later, it was finally on its last legs and ready to be removed. But surprise surprise, they told me they couldn’t operate because I was pregnant…THE FUCK I WAS I yelled into the ether. My husband was a cancer survivor who’d been assured that he was shooting nothing but blanks and I had enough cysts in my ovaries to hamper the growth of any potential baby. But there I was, pregnant and in some of the most intense pain of my life. They were so worried my gallbladder was going to burst and flood my body with poison, but they were still adamant there was nothing they could do.

After running home I told my (now ex) husband about what had gone on. He was getting home from a job and we just sort of sat there until he broke the silence and told me he didn’t want any more kids. He never signed up for kids and obviously my body was betraying me and we had to figure out other options. Again, Planned Parenthood was my savior. I was able to procure the RU486. This was a pill that induced miscarriage. I promise not to slam you with details, I’ll just say this: it was painful, I spent hours in a bathtub crying and alone. But the next day I was admitted into surgery with only slightly high progesterone levels, but no longer pregnant.

No one is ever overjoyed. No one is ever ready. The “happy pregnant couple” is an overused trope and as someone whose boyfriend managed to get upset after seeing that they purchased a puppy, I can safely say it’s all bullshit.

Take it from me, a seasonally depressed asshole who can’t even watch a simple tv show because it brings up too many feelings. Let’s just say I’m the rule, not the exception.

Happy Holidays, you beautiful degenerates ❤️

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.

Born Under a Bad Sign

Posted on by theditchedbitch

Thursday’s child has far to go.

-Nursery Rhyme, Author Unknown

Earlier I spoke of struggle. Of turmoil amidst bodies, bloodlines, todays, and tomorrows. Deep breaths turn to tears, running into nothingness. Sometimes we’re born into sorrow, into pain. Innocent children forced into emotional servitude, physical violence, and trauma beyond all imagining. Some of us are simply born unlucky.

We are Thursday’s children.

Living, breathing uphill battles, gently weaving through life on a path we cannot see, always praying for light, guidance, relief. The universe exists, a deaf ear turned to vehement prayers uttered by the those considered the least valued, those who are decidedly unseen. We are those lost in a world preoccupied by capitalistic predators, swallowed whole by greed.

We climb ever upward, fingers scraped to the bone, reaching heavenward for hands to pull us from the rubble. Hands that somewhere deep down we know will never come. Those who were to teach us, guide us, love us, take care of us, were the ones who hurt us the most. Betrayal settling into every pore until we’re clogged with hurt, sadness, and immense regret.

Though the hope never fades. These beautiful babies, these broken angelic souls, who through no fault of their own were dealt a bad hand. “Play the hand your dealt.” “Roll with the punches.” Be the flower that grows through the crack in the sidewalk, because if you don’t the darkness will crush you. Eviscerate you. Drag you down into the depths where you’ll never be found. Forgotten, like so many others. Another familial casualty.

Some of us find our footing. We (the luckiest amongst the unlucky), are able to spin straw into gold and solidify our place in this world. Screaming “WE EXIST” into the void, begging for normalcy and a hand to hold, anything to make the pain of the past bearable. No matter the work done, this pain is still inside us. We process, meditate, live, love, and ultimately become the best versions of ourselves. Someone that we, the children of trauma, can be proud of. A person wholly unlike those who raised us, entirely different from the horrors we are not allowed to forget.

Those of us who stand before you human and flawed, possessing of stalwart hearts unlike any other. We are fucking superheroes. Our gifts were forged in fire, gifts we bestowed upon ourselves. The development of tenacity, adaptability, ambition, an immeasurable capacity for love, creativity, innovation, and a fire that cannot be quelled. We are the people we never dared dream of being. Bad luck be damned, we make our own luck now. Thursday’s children have made it our business to become better, and business (as they say) is good.

In Your Eyes

Posted on by theditchedbitch

Today I find myself struggling. The world is a little more complicated today than it was yesterday. Feelings exist and heart vs head remains a constant battle, pausing only to be overtaken by want and need. The perpetual ache ebbing and flowing with proximity.

I’ve never been in a situation like this. Uncharted territory usually makes me nervous, but this feels more like I’m on the road to El Dorado…where unknown riches and the life I’ve always dreamed of awaits, if I can just survive the journey.

Hopefully I don’t have to go it alone.

Occasionally the head reigns supreme and I’m caught in stasis. Walled up inside my mind, palms against cold brick, begging to be seen and felt. To make the connection I know exists. To feel the electricity between us and light the fuse to begin the inevitable explosion that I know will engulf all involved.

The heart wants what the heart wants. Nothing to be done about that. She exists in such a realm where romcoms are real and meet cutes are plentiful. She is unbridled joy, passion, and adoration. She is strength personified. How that little muscle can take beatings again and again, and still see the optimism and the hope that’s born from deep feelings for another person is beyond me. But I wouldn’t change her for anything. She believes her person is out there, just waiting for their chance. Someone who will fight for what they want and never, never take her for granted. A partner in all things, truly.

Maybe they’ve become comfortable in their pragmatism, purposefully ignoring the possibility, the beautiful what ifs and whens. Perhaps they’ll stop seeing me the way they once did and lock it all away, never to be reawakened. Or maybe they’ll fall, (regardless of how hard they’ve tried to distance themselves), pragmatism be damned, taking the road less traveled in the most stunning of moments.

Maybe love is real.

Maybe the hopeless romantics aren’t so hopeless.

Maybe anything really is possible.

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 ❤️

A Total Separation of Self

Posted on by theditchedbitch

Today is a day both like (and unlike) so many others. Anxiety and depression working in tandem to break down my defenses, causing me no small amount of emotional unrest. Unfortunate news showers over me like a well worn blanket, smothering the last feeble flame of hope I’d managed to cultivate. A heartbreaking moment in time, frozen forever in my memory as another let down, another someone who perhaps should’ve stayed a stranger.

Dating PTSD has become my new normal. The very (very) few connections I’ve made have exited my life as quickly as they originally entered. One and done every time. It takes connecting with me in person a single time for them to realize something about themselves “I have feelings for someone else”, “I can’t do this right now”, “I’ve got to get my life together”. WHY ARE YOU EVEN ON DATING APPS? WHY DID YOU ALLOW ME TO CATCH A FEELING BEFORE YOU DITCHED OUT? HOW CAN YOU CONNECT WITH ME LIKE THIS AND THEN LET ME GO? And why do I keep letting this happen?

My life is incredibly fulfilling. An immense amount of love from friends and family, a son I adore with every fiber of my being, obnoxious cats I can’t get enough of, a career I excel at, a very rich social life/community, a steady diet of emotional maturity, and mental acuity. I genuinely believe in being radically grateful for what you have, who you are, and what you’ve achieved. I don’t need a partner, or a lover, to feel that. I don’t need another person to complete me, I am whole.

That being said, it would be nice to have a person who chooses me every day. Who treats me the way I deserve. Someone who enjoys my company, makes me laugh, shares interests, conversations, and all of the beautiful physicality that goes along with it. But I won’t sell my soul and settle with someone just because they choose me. It has to be special. It has to spark. It has to be real. Nothing less will do.

Today I deleted my dating apps. No new friends, not right now. Again I point my compass inward and breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that I’m doing what’s best for me. The universe in its unfiltered fucking chaos has laid this at my feet and I am only able to control how I react… how I move forward. So this is me once again moving forward alone, secure in the knowledge that I’m enough, that I’m worthy. Letting chaos throw me where it may, with the understanding that I always land on my feet.

“The floor seemed wonderfully solid. It was comforting to know I had fallen and could fall no farther.”

-Sylvia Plath The Bell Jar

Looking for the Magic

Posted on by theditchedbitch

The past few days have been a true exercise in patience. Depression teaming up with anxiety, social awkwardness taking up residence with insecurity. All leading me down the path of struggle and into the land of general unrest.

My previous posts have been about dating and the issues therein…this one is no different (and for that I’m sorry, dear reader). Part of me wants to give up completely, while the other parts of me still cling to the idea that hope springs eternal. It’s incredibly difficult to sift through the wreckage of my interpersonal relationships and find the optimist I used to be. Wasn’t this easier in my 20’s?

My therapist says all of this is normal and now that I’m refusing to settle, it’s going to be a bit more of an uphill battle. Falling into the mediocre is easy, knowing your worth and accepting nothing less is where the true work lies it seems. Super.

That being said, I’ve become more selective and infinitely more discerning about my choices. I find that I still have a type, though maybe even that’s broadened after careful scrutiny. What I’m looking for is a human of substance. Someone to make me laugh while discussing all things of interest, going to the best shows, and adventuring as the mood takes us. That’s pretty simple, right?

So this is me: real, tired, bared to the bone, still trying, forever interested in people who don’t know I exist, accustomed to getting by (no more, no less). I’m the girl dancing around the living room to whatever is spinning and pretending like the world outside doesn’t terrify her. Because heartbreak is real. Disappointment is real.

What I’ve found up to this point has been a highly problematic, exhausting, occasionally enjoyable, perpetual onslaught of confusion. A parade of folks hell bent on disquieting my zen(ish) reality. My emotionally healthy state rattled again and again because sometimes this shit is hard and things happen. Doing my utmost to take it in stride and continue forward, making the most of what I’m given. Roll with those punches, babyyyyy.

But as Sylvia Plath said:

“Wear your heart on your skin in this life.”

And I realize that I was meant to be vulnerable. To love with reckless abandon and give myself over to joy, while still taking time to breathe life into my own world daily. Though there may yet be hurt, there still exists the possibility of so much more, and whatever that is I know that I am deserving.

So here’s to hope, here’s to perseverance, here’s to love, here’s to me.

Victim of Me

Posted on by theditchedbitch

After writing an entire post about tinder and the dating world fairly recently, I realized that this warranted a world-weary follow up. A far less optimistic, highly jaded, poetic turn of phrase that mirrors exactly my current thoughts on the subject. Something rough and beautiful, with clarity and just a dash of sarcasm. A moment in time that I can refer to after decrying the entirety of the dating world and then subsequently running back to it at full speed (as I am wont to do).

So dear reader, we begin with two solid months of nonstop dating. Back to back to back to back dates, in the hopes that one might lead to a second (and so on and so forth). Let me preface this by saying that I met some truly lovely people, but there was only one that really continued. We hung out often, having loads of fun, and simply enjoying ourselves. Casual. Which is exactly what I wanted. Relationships develop naturally and I am the last person to push anything on anyone (including myself). I want organic. I want potential. I want that smooth, seamless transition that occasionally presents itself after time has passed. Aren’t we all just auditioning potential mates? Isn’t that what dating is supposed to be? At this point I don’t feel qualified to hazard an answer.

This person and I ended things recently in a very adult manner. They wanted to remain casual indefinitely, saying there was no potential for a romantic relationship, and I knew that eventually I’d want more, so we decided to part ways. An ideal ending actually, if you don’t take into account the fact that I liked them. I mean, to be fair I still do. But this was hands down the most substantial thing I’ve been a part of in a minute, so that’s to be expected.

Now, let’s take a moment to remember Sex and the City. We all watched it, endlessly fascinated as these immaculately clad femmes moved in and out of high society NYC with reckless abandon. This next person reminded me very much of the eponymous Burger storyline.

They came out of nowhere with a super like to the forefront of my brain and after 5 minutes of talking to them, I was hooked. They were excited, I was excited. It was effortless. We had plans to meet, but video chatted and texted every day until then. The date was super lovely and I had not one single qualm. The spark was real and realized.

The day after I received a call from him when he got off of work. We already had another date planned and I was in the midst of some (finally reciprocated) euphoria. I answered the phone and was told that they couldn’t see me anymore as hanging out with me had made them realize they had feelings for someone else…I’m sorry, what? When? And also what the fuck? Out of left field it came, bitterly eradicating any and all hope. This was my post it. This was my soul crushing goodbye.

I find myself at an emotional crossroads. Keep putting myself out there and continue getting hurt, or do I just throw my hands up and say enough is enough? Whatever this is doesn’t seem to work for me and hot girl summer feels canceled. Should I fortify my hermitage and prepare for the loneliness it creates? Are building walls the right way to handle (and potentially avoid) heartbreak?

At the end of the day I suppose there’s no right answer. Just an unending barrage of questions, allowing me to twist in the wind for eternity.

Lookers

Posted on by theditchedbitch

As I swipe through the entirety of the Philadelphia area, I find myself at a loss. Dating can be rough on its best day, but online dating is borderline nightmarish.

So let’s break it down. A plethora of Barney’s with “easy going” and “down to earth” embedded firmly in their profiles, daring me to find meaning in empty platitudes. Cops and gym bros fill each square, while the fishermen of the tri-state area show off their latest catches. Mindlessly swiping left (always left), unless someone of exceptional good looks and the potential for personality falls at my feet like an offering from the tinder gods. I swipe right, no match. I send him off into the ether to match with another woman, another day.

Hours go by and I notice my battery has dwindled to almost nothing. I plug it in again and double my pursuits. A MATCH! I message “hey there” casually and hope for the best. Most folks respond within a day or two, and more often than not continues half heartedly until they stop messaging completely and that smug little “wave” icon appears, taunting me with its lack of engagement. I ignore it and glumly go back into the swiping void.

Then you match with someone you think is cute, you go on a date and it’s simply effervescent. Dude is cute and funny and smart and blah blah blah and you find yourself thinking that maybe online dating wasn’t the worst thing you’ve ever done in your life. You text, you meet, you fun, you frolic, and then you hope the pattern continues. Then it lags: less texts, canceled dates, more distance, and you are forced to remember that you met on an app and they’re definitely seeing other people so maybe you should also think about seeing other people.

So you swipe again…and again…and again. You’re picky as shit and you know it, but you’re not gonna settle ever again. No more mediocre men, you tell yourself at midnight as you realize it’s time for bed and you’ve accomplished nothing except for the swipe. The swipe owns you and you’re well aware. Pull the handle, win a prize. Too bad the prize is some off brand nonsense destined to be given to a pet or a child you don’t really care for.

But there are some lookers. A jolt of excitement courses through you every time you swipe right on a babe of epic proportions or a profile that makes you laugh. Though trust me when I say that you never need to show me a picture of your abs. Highly unnecessary and wildly overrated are the pictures of the outdoors, or a sunset pic that you’re not even in. I want to see pictures of you laughing, playing with your pets, and drinking like a human person. Ethically Non-Monogamous need not apply.

So this is me trying my best. Moving ever forward in a world of flexing menfolk, indiscernible selfies (please stop taking pictures of yourself in a mask and then making that your initial profile photo, I refuse to look any further because you should know better), and mountains of men I’m not attracted to taking up my time in a very real way. All the while waiting for the one I’m interested in to see that I’m pretty great, and to maybe (just maybe), give up the swipe.