My mom always told me not to scratch at my bug bites. She said I’d only make it worse. But they’d itch so bad that, I knew, itching would bring such relief. I wouldn’t be able to focus on much else until I did.
So, I’d scratch, and scratch, and scratch, until they bled. I couldn’t be mad about it, it was my own doing.
I’ve never really been good at not scratching. Once my mind is set on something, I have to act on it. It’s like a compulsion.
A couple of years ago, I became fixated on the idea that I was wasting my youth and that I would have nothing to show for the ‘best years of my life.’ To combat these thoughts, I began documenting my life. Or maybe it was to counteract my feelings of inadequacy, but I was hell-bent on capturing every ‘perfect' moment shared between me and my friends.
I scratched at the itch.
Like the presence of a bug bite, this was an obsession. I lost control. I was so focused on capturing every memory that I forgot to be a part of them. Hiding behind my camera, I buried emotions and fears within each and every photograph.
I scratched and scratched and scratched until it bled.
The itch evolved. I found myself using photography as a means of emotional suppression for more than just my fears of growing up and imperfection. It distracted me from creative burnout, my fluctuating self-confidence, anxiety, and, most recently, grieving the loss of my Nonno. After self-reflecting, I feel embarrassed and sad about my past actions.
I can’t be embarrassed about it, it was my own doing.
Was it worth it? Was it really such a relief?
Because as I see it now, succumbing to the itch only leaves you
with a scab.