writing, sewing, and a sense of safety

Writing was and has been a sanctuary for me and a safe, cathartic release. In my basement there is a tub of every journal and diary I've ever kept, from my first at 8 years old to the spiral notebooks I scribbled in as a teen. In a drawer of my bed stand there is an overflowing blue file folder full of partially filled journals and marked up scraps of paper, written in moments when my mind was bursting with words. But it's been a long time since I've written for myself; for my emotional well-being and enjoyment. I keep looking back trying to figure out how I lost touch with writing and the truth is it's always been a touchy spot for me. In an effort to get back on the theoretical writing horse, I made a commitment to some online sewing friends that I would finish writing a blog by the end of the week. Sure, I'm pushing it at 6PM on a Sunday night, but I'm here! So, gutterpals (you know who you are) this one is for you and me. Let me tell you a little bit about me and writing, a sense of safety, and sewing for my self.

That very first diary that I had? Well, when I was 8 years old I had two best friends over for a sleep over. These two best friends broke the lock on that diary to read my personal thoughts and feelings. Yes, they learned about my undying crush on Alex B. and how I truly felt about our classmates, pretty tantalizing stuff for the 2nd grade. But then they wrote crude comments inside it and left it for me to find. Now that's some Mean Girls shit right there, isn't it?

Though the stuff of my crushes and opinions on my classmates wasn't really deep, intimate stuff, I was (still am) a pretty introverted kid who used writing to escape overwhelming surroundings. When the world wasn't safe for me, I wrote. For a time after that violation of privacy, when it didn't feel safe to write the words in my brain I wrote in code. There wasn't a true system to it but if I look back at those diaries now I still know roughly what I was talking about.

As I have grown so do the moments between when I've last put my thoughts down in words. I live in my head a lot. Thoughts tumble around in my brain and get tangled up nowadays. My fears and worries get bigger and start to feel insurmountable. And so I think to myself, "I should write. That would help with the anxiety." I buy special journals, make reminders in my phone. Sometimes I am struck with a particularly moving thought that I think really deserves to be recorded and I tell myself that I will pen it later, but rarely do.

I know my mental health isn't getting any better on it's own, and my anxiety won't magically disappear. So, I am coaxing myself into doing the uncomfortable and anxiety-inducing in order to hopefully end up less anxious and uncomfortable later on (logic?) I know writing has gotten me through hard spots, helped me to ask hard questions of myself, and grow through pain.

Tonight, I was on the same path of conveniently forgetting to do this thing (writing this blog) which I knew would someday make me feel better. My laptop was sitting across from me, and I thought about what it would be like to write. I sat for a couple minutes because the thought elicited pain and fear. I debated my options. And here I am.

I am often paralyzed by anxiety and fear like this in many areas in my life. Haven't always been, but it was always there at some level, ya know? It's only gotten bigger with time. But I've always been afraid of trying, because I'm afraid of messing up or failing. With personal writing there isn't so much failure except for feeling like you are failing yourself. But for other parts of my life, like making and art, the line between failure and success seems a lot clearer because its often determined through someone else's eye. And I don't feel like I have any control over that.

When it comes to sewing for my body, I first have to conquer whatever level of perfection my mind deems necessary to feel confident that if someone else saw my garment, they wouldn't think it was ugly. They might even think it was attractive. And so I toss it out, or don't bother wearing whatever feels like it doesn't mean that standard.

Tied up in all of that is me figuring out if it's something I'd "look good in."

"I'd look good in this" also =

I'll pass*

I'll be taken seriously

I'll feel confident

I'll feel attractive

I'll feel like myself

I could go on, but the tricky thing is that some of these things are mutually exclusive. What I'm able to pass in, is not what makes me feel confident and like myself. Same as what I'll be taken seriously in doesn't necessarily make me feel attractive. If I had it my way (which who says I can't?) I'd sport leggings and bright, colorful flow-y tunics. I'd paint my nails, wear more jewelry, and do funky shit with my hair. Those things make me feel good about myself. But, I care A LOT about what people think of me, too much so often times. So in the past I haven't made the things that made me feel confident, attractive, like myself. Passing and being taken seriously took priority and in that I've sacrificed the personal joy of feeling good in the clothes I'm in.

But, here I am. Just as I am facing down these words one at a time, I am facing my fears in making the things for my body which will truly make me more joyful. A flowery cardigan, a hand-beaded button-up collar, lace boxers. These few pieces are the beginning of the external expression of my internal sense of self. And just like it hasn't been perfectly easy writing this, it hasn't been a cake walk to carry myself in those pieces, but I'm working on it.

Now, it's time for me to paint my nails.