Writing from Bitterness

I've been writing from a place of bitterness.

When I was 23 years old, freshly graduated from college with my bachelor I was called bitter. For context, I am a childhood abuse survivor who often, in my teens and early twenties, confronted my mother (one of the abusers) about her mistreatment of me (her oldest child/ daughter).

The last time I confronted her (at 23), she called me bitter for bringing it up again.

This fucked me up.

Today, I decided to go outside and touch grass. (Not literally, just a walk) I realized that I had been creating bitterly just to find a way to prove her wrong.

See look, I trust my words now even after she made it her duty for me to second guess myself.

See look, I have kept my creative spark regardless of my childhood terrors floating in the back of my mind.

See, look, I'm still trying to be better regardless of whether you (mom) think that I am still the terrified child I was.

There are truths but also lies.

My words are my own but I do second-guess them. My creative spark is fickle at times and that terrified child is still inside of me. The only difference is that I stand 10 toes down for myself.

Bitterness has been a motivator but as indifference grows in my parental relationship, the knot is being undone and I am having a hard time replacing my source of motivation. I don't care if I am seen as bitter anymore but I still need the rage that comes with it.

What am I to do if I am not proving my biggest fucking bullies wrong?

Exist, I guess.

Exist loudly and proudly.

Of course, this is easier said than done, but I am reclaiming myself and my life. Maybe reclaiming isn't the right word, as I was never allotted the right to claim myself, to begin with. So, instead, I am claiming myself and my life.

Here's to 27. the growth has been devastating but substantial. (My birthday month starts tomorrow, and this is the first time I will be celebrating it as an adult -the way I want to.)

-Ray'nee