When I came out of rehab I no longer perceived colour. Eventually, I got a job with a bland dress code, and I was too afraid to ruin my clothes at that job so I didn't wear anything I liked. I had to get up so early that I would just sleep the afternoons away once I got home from work. On days off I'd wear sweatpants of pajamas. This all ruined my relationship to clothing. I used to wear clothing I loved and clothing that was important to me. It used to be a part of my creative process. I keep trying to write about this because I keep trying to understand it.
I spent 5 years in work uniform jail and the next 5 years without access to a proper full-length mirror. The latter 5 years involved intense depop selling, which was some sort of cathartic high that I somewhat regret. I guess I had to spend those 10 years repenting--NO that's not it, it's something different that I haven't quite put my finger on.
A new era is beginning and I'm trying to understand my new relationship to clothing. I'm more ashamed of myself than I've ever been. I noticed I somehow lost access to patterns, colour, shape. Everything became bland and anonymous. I want my old clothes back.
Another part is the moths. I don't know how to write about this event's trauma yet because it compounded with the other traumas. Clothing destroyed. Fear of the moths returning.
Now I want to buy clothing all the time and I can't afford to do that. I can't rebuild what once was. Things have become shittier, some thrifting has become shittier. I seek comfort from clothes again.
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