I can’t pretend that the incident didn’t change me. It would be stupid to try, something that major would affect anyone. The biggest change I have noticed is the mother fucking knocking. Any time someone makes a racket against my door the reaction is involuntary. As soon as the audible *thud, thud, thud* hits my eardrums, my body goes careening through the ceiling, forehead breaks out in a cold sweat, heart pounding its way to choking me out. It’s an irrational reaction, I know that. There was an order coming in, I had just forgotten about it.

To be fair, they don’t always knock, I usually get a notification of delivery and rush to claim my prize fast as lightning before retreating to the recesses of my apartment once more. I can’t help the physical fear response I have. For a week straight I got knocks on the door all bad news… okay not ALL bad, but stressful for sure. You’d probably freak out too if you kept seeing detectives, CPS, and court paperwork parading in front of your face one right after the other.

Oh, my life, the mess. Anyway, the knock this time was FedEx, I ordered a couple of small hair care things to help with summer and well, court. After a breakup, or traumatic event that leaves me feeling stripped of my autonomy, I tend to chop off all my hair. Sad that I can say this is a pattern I have had, toxic relationships and low self-esteem will do that to a person. This time, I want to keep the long, luscious locks. Getting some hair care was my way of fighting those urges to just take some scissors and go nuts. I worked hard to feel safe and comfortable enough to have it and this relationship, while ended tragically, was healthy. I felt safe and sexy, while I feel like a troll that lives under a bridge since this all went down, I know it’s the trauma talking. My hair is healthy and small sign of the little bit of bodily autonomy I feel like I still have.

Won’t lie and say I feel like a hot piece of ass again, I really don’t. I miss feeling like the sexy bubbly bimbo not a care in the world. I can finally look at my reflection without being mortified at the emotional scars or blinded by dysmorphia. However, there is still a light haze of self-doubt, grossness, hated, whatever you want to call today’s thoughts and their demonic whisperings. My demons are cozy and like to sip their tea while they laugh at my flinching, it’s fine, we snuggle at night. That is when I’m not weakening them with coping skills and reflection journals. Hoping one day, they will fade into oblivion entirely.

Maybe one day knocking on my door will excite me instead of sending shivers down my spine. Perhaps, eventually, I will look in the mirror and see in myself what others find so appealing. I wonder, if someday, I’ll be able to love myself again. I’ll settle for embracing my swamp witchiness again. That would be a great step forward. From troll to swamp witch is the goal for now. Next step one day be confident in my sexuality again, gain the rest of my autonomy back somehow.

What helps you feel better besides just time and waiting it out? What makes you feel like yourself again? How do you cope with your trauma? Comment below.