My lingerie.

So many weird little facets about ourselves. We all have little things that we do, things that bring us a comfort or a safety that we need. Some of us aware of what they are and where they come from and some of us not so much. Silly things that either bring us shame or make us laugh, maybe make us laugh to hide our shame. Do anything but show our true feelings or speak the truth about things.

To me it is funny how people ASSUME you are something or they THINK you are something based on what they know of you even when they don’t know you at all. They see that you have a certain body type or you wear certain clothes so this tells them something about you. But what? Maybe because you are a tall, slender woman this means you are their dream sex machine. Is that because you truly are or is that because it is what they hope you to be? It seems to me it is usually the latter. Do they see you as small and petit and therefore easy to push around or insert any other perception based judgment someone might have. It does take effort to take people as they are and to drop our judgements so we can get to know each other as complex beings. Like right now I am wondering why I haven’t even started talking about the thing I wanted to write about and instead I am diving deep into the thoughts that surround me actually sharing about myself. Genius.

I am a collector of items that hold a memory or a relationship. Many of these are clothing items. I like to wear clothes that remind me of others or of relationships that made me feel whole. Many of these items are hospital scrubs from different hospitals where I have visited to regain solid footing in life. Hospitals where I needed to go so that I felt cared about and safe. These are the things that bring me the comfort I need to fall asleep and the comfort I need to wake back up. Memories of nurses, adventures, friends made, tears shed or just feeling like there was someone in the world who wanted you to stay alive. All this woven into a pair of baggy green scrubs, baggy blue scrubs, rough polyester jail pants, and the list goes on….I don’t need to go shopping for new pajamas I just need a doctors appointment or an ER visit. This is my uniform, my protection, my safety. It is how I know I belong somewhere in this world. From the very beginning I was brought into the world in a womb that suffocated me with alcohol and cigarette smoke, with trauma and disgust. From the very beginning the nurses took me away to care for me and to help me survive wearing the uniform of a patient and the soul of a discarded child. I often wonder if that is why I found my way back to that very place time and time again. Maybe this time hoping they wouldn’t put so much effort into saving a life that would be filled with the sorrow of a broken brain and soul. Or maybe hoping one of them would take me home. I’m unsure.

What I am sure of is that the next time someone wants to picture me as something and see me as what they want me to be for their pleasure… they can know what the actual truth is. And that truth is knowing I will be sleeping in the night, surrounded by clothes that are woven together by some of the best memories I have in this life and that will always be MY LINGERIE.


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