The first time I remember being aware of clothing as a statement piece, I was about four years old. Since then, dressing myself has always been a well-loved game. As I got older, I not only realized how much I enjoyed color, fabric, and proportion, but that what you put on your body created a certain personae.
This love affair with fashion continued right up until the day I chose the outfit my daughter would be buried in.
At that point, things changed. And they have continued to change ever since.
During the first eight days or so after Cory was put in the ground, I saw clothing in a whole new light. For the first time I could consciously remember, clothing had become nothing but a practical necessity. I remember thinking to myself, something to cover the top- check. something to cover the bottom- check. Done.
When I had to return to work, I used clothing as an armor. I suited up. If I could keep up appearances by continuing to present myself the way I always had, could I maintain the past? If I could keep people at bay from asking me questions and offering me hugs, could I play let's-pretend-she's-still-alive in my head and live in denial indefinitely?
Eventually, the effort of putting on this mask took its toll. I crumbled under the weight of all this pretense, and decided to just be. Grooming went out the window. Clothing was a chore. My dear co-worker and friend told me just recently that she could tell I was making progress in my grief because I have begun to show up at work dressed more appropriately. Upon hearing this, I blanched, panic-stricken, trying to remember just what I'd been putting on my body this last year or so, and could only fear I had shown up at the office with one boob hanging out or something.
I asked my friend what she meant by appropriate- had I been showing up without enough clothing or something? She chuckled, and told me that no, I had not, but I had showed up many times looking as if I'd gotten dressed in the dark.
I tried to muster up some indignation towards this remark, but I had nothing. She was right. When I thought back to the impeccable little show poodle who had pranced through the building with ribbons in her hair prior to the accident, I could only imagine how much concern my appearance as of late has caused my co-workers.
I have, in fact, an enviable collection of designer handbags hanging on hooks on my bedroom wall- the most delicious wall hanging ever. I didn't carry a single one of them for almost two years after Cory died. One, they meant nothing anymore in the big scheme of things. Two, I could no longer feel joy. Three, I felt guilty to do pretty much anything Cory no longer had the opportunity to do.
Perspective changes everything. Values shift. Ever so slowly, your new personality emerges, like a woodwork fresh from the whittler's hand. People are impatient for you to get back to your old self, at the very moment your new identity is being shaped by your grief journey. Crazy.
At the moment, I'm poised mid-way between the continuum of getting dressed to gain approval and not caring at all about my appearance. It's a much more soulful place to live. As I write this at the coffee shop, I am wearing my "writing jeans", one of Cory's T-shirts, and memorial jewelry. Anyone who ran into me day after day at the coffee shop might worry that I only own this one pair of jeans. This could not be farther from the truth. I have way too many, but when coming here, feel pressed to put on my "lucky" writing pants- an ultra comfortable pair of boyfriend jeans, ripped and holey, that feel like home.
I often choose to wear pieces of Cory's clothing to comfort me. I may sneak in a scarf of hers with my work outfit, or give up all artifice on a particularly rough day, and just show up at work with the hat she was wearing on the day she died perched on my head...whatever gets me through.
While I hope that someday, I actually want to buy myself a new dress or a pair of shoes, I am in no hurry to get there. There are valuable lessons to be learned in this place I find myself.
And lately, things on the inside seem way more important that things on the outside.
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