I'm a Bitch - and That's What Makes Me Great

“She’s such a good girl. She’s so easy, so smart, she’s just so good.” Childhood was full of these sentiments. Instead of being a child, allowed to create and make mistakes, I was gently corralled and corrected. Before I could even walk, I was the center of attention. The whole family gathered for holidays, but really the central attraction wasn’t our togetherness or our passion for the holiday - for years, it was me.

Performing comes easily to those who have lived a life of back-to-back shows in their own homes. Watching home videos is a double-edged sword. The memories seem sweet on the surface, but it’s apparent to anyone watching that by the time I was two I’d become the family’s private dancing bear. “Sunny, count to ten. Sunny, sing the ABC’s for us. Sunny, fix your hair. Sunny, smile at the camera. Sunny perform for us.”

Their intentions weren’t malicious. In fact, that’s how they learned to express love, through achievement - and I was the greatest achievement of all. I was the shinning star, the stunning salvation. And then…

As I got older and everyone grew into mature adults, they folded into themselves, into their own mid-life crises. No one wanted to watch the dancing bear. What they failed to understand was that the dancing bear only felt loved when it was performing. This is what they conditioned into my spirit. I was only valued or even acknowledged when I was performing. The intrinsic value I held as a person was never reinforced, and in fact stripped from my experience. The only time I felt loved was when I earned it. What happens when you suddenly lose your gainful employment as the family jester? What happens when the applause ends and you’re left with nothing but the darkness and your own soul?

At 16, I rebelled. I rebelled against the establishment, against my parents, against anything I perceived to be a manipulation. I rebelled at the notion I should perpetuate these silly performances, especially when they meant very little.

By 20, things spilled over into the realm of madness. Making good decisions no longer mattered. Instead, what mattered more was an exploration of who I was under the many theatrical hats I’d worn for so long. Recklessness became a daily occurrence. Although, I experienced more growth and freedom in this time of my life than any other.

How many times have I heard, “Why must you be so difficult?” “Why are you like this?” “It’s hard to talk to you.” “You bitch!” Yawn. It’s all so redundant. In its essence, it’s not untrue - but context is everything.

Men have degraded, cursed at, endangered, assaulted, and slandered me all because I wouldn’t entertain the idea of sex. Men have catcalled and embarrassed me in an attempt to persuade me to degrade myself for their pleasure. I have never, not once, regretted telling any of them no.

Having an opinion in a public forum is especially taboo when you have a vagina, apparently. Holding a public position invites more judgment and cruelty. Not once have I ever been ashamed to report these behaviors and people to proper authorities; even if it meant professional retaliation.

What I would regret is allowing someone to make me feel less than I am. I know, because I spent an entire childhood feeling less-than. I am everything. I am stardust, love, and water. I am human, and thus granted all of the rights human beings enjoy; whether other humans agree with the sentiment or if they do not. I will be damned if I will not be treated fairly, or at minimum, be heard.

A dear friend once said in conversation, “Be the bitch if you need to be, and let them know that you’re not the one.” Once I reached 20, this had already been my moto for months. There’s something tragic about trauma that leads us to a place of hardening, of eradicating vulnerability as to not be scorned or scorched again. What’s most interesting about this quote is that there are two ways to do it and only one is the way forward:

1. One could do as I did as a teen and young woman and shut out the world by building walls. You build a facade, a fake version of you - prickly and vicious - to keep everyone out. The problem is, you’ve locked yourself in. You are sequestered from everyone else with yourself. This is why this path never works. Being stuck with yourself requires you to sit in your suffering, in your trauma. When the only way out is through.

2. This is the real meaning: Being the bitch refers to not actually being a bitch, but by being what society sees as a bitch - someone who is headstrong, confident, sure of themselves, and operates from an intuitive space. Letting them know you are not the one to be trifled with comes from a strong sense of self-assuredness, from a belief that you are worthy. Simply, you are not the one because you believe in yourself.

That’s the difference.

I’ve been told by many therapists, but particularly by one who specializes in trauma, that I am in the 1%. Meaning, someone with my profile generally never becomes. Statistically, 95% of people who share my types of traumas and circumstances never become functional adults. They never have jobs, or families, and rarely are they even sober. What I endured, what all of these people in this category endured, is nothing short of horrific, taking all of us to our breaking points. Many of the people in the 95% commit suicide. Even when these people get help, the data is grim.

Five percent will become functional. However, they will require life-long medication, therapy, and supports. Most only work part-time and struggle to be a part of families. They can only focus on their immediate needs, and struggle to get to a place of “normalcy”.

Then, there‘s me - the 1%. I am the one who made it to the other side, the one out of every one hundred bursting through into functionality. I’m a good wife, I’m a good mother, and I’m an overall good person. I function *mostly* well, given I have several physical disabilities developed later in life because of complex trauma. Overall, I have made it.

I won’t lie - it doesn’t feel like it sometimes. Life feels crushing some days, and so does the burden of the scars of my trauma. The anxiety disorders, the feeling of not feeling safe, the autoimmune disease, and post-covid autonomic dysfunction. It’s all a lot to bear.

Other days, I am profoundly grateful, with gratitude so deep that I feel that I emanate nothing but light and love and peace - something I never thought possible for many years of my life. Being love, being peace, both leave me feeling like I am the luckiest person alive.

The question I ask myself is, could I have gotten to this place without being the bitch? Without being stubborn and difficult? Or maybe was I just defending my right to live? Instead of being stubborn, I persevered. Instead of being difficult, I was determined. Instead of being arrogant, I was resilient. Some of this is in the way society perceives and discusses women.

Without a doubt, I would never have made it into the 1% without being courageous, outspoken, honest, brave, brilliant, determined, persistent, resourceful, and resilient. Without grabbing the reigns to my life, I would’ve gone off the cliff.

There’s something to becoming the bitch. There’s something crucial to being challenging. There’s something exciting about becoming outrageous and bursting through the glass ceilings. There’s something to becoming wild and beautiful and free. So, be the bitch. Be free. Be everything. What do you have to lose but yourself?