Clothed in Discomfort
When the world is never comfortable
So what if I have sensory issues. Sensory Defensive Disorder, or whatever it’s called, wasn’t a thing when my mother had to shop at Sears to get my white Hanes underwear and bobby-socks. I couldn't wear anything else. Some say my issues could also be part of being a Highly Sensitive Person (HSP) or that it is triggered by Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) or by Bipolar Disorder (BP) which I also have a diagnosis of. I also have a history of nerve issues related to tick borne illnesses which no one has been able to tie down to a specific timeframe as to when the symptoms started.
I remember one time, she was pulling my wrist and practically jogging through the store to get the undershirts. Why she insisted I wear a shirt under another shirt or a slip of a skirt under another skirt, I’ll never understand, but she did. And I needed the undershirts with the flat spaghetti straps not braided, and without a bow which would itch my chest where it was attached.
“We will just cut it off,” my mother said.
They also needed to be tagless. Or they could have a side tag.
“What's a side tag?” my mother asked. It seemed obvious to me, but she just looked at me for a long while.
And this issue runs in the family. My nephew screamed in the backseat of my mother’s ‘84 Chevy Cavalier that his “sock was silly.” He must’ve yelled that three-hundred times in varying intensity. Then he began screaming bloody murder and kicking his feet. (POEM: An Uncomfortable Ride)
My sister with an Inspector Gadget stretch reached around the seat, grabbed Mark’s foot, and sent the shoe and its sock sailing out the window on the interstate. He immediately stopped crying. But then he cried because it was different from the other side.
My other sister cut the tags out of her Champion sweatshirts, sometimes cutting the seam too close so that little holes formed in the collar. When that happened she would cut the collar completely out of the shirt and wear it off her shoulder.
It must be from my mother’s side. In rehab my mother learned to turn her socks inside out so the seam wouldn’t be against her toes. She also learned that putting on a sock, then a shoe, then sock, then shoe would prevent grit from getting on the socks before putting the shoes on.
When I got my first job, I began spending my checks on t-shirts from stores that advertised brushed cotton or vintage blends. The store was small and quieter, colors muted. The t-shirts were velvety, stretchy, and--most importantly--tagless.
When I got my first car, I kept extra socks in the glove compartment. Sometimes I could wear one thing, but then my body would say “fuck you,” and “get this off me.” I would have to comply. I often packed extra clothes for a day outing. I can completely understand the impulse to run through the streets naked. I studied Edgar Allan Poe in college and understood how someone like us could be found wandering naked in the street.
When I started my first teaching job and began wearing skirt suits to work, I sometimes found myself stripping off my nylons in the staff bathroom before third period. On at least one occasion, I stripped from the waist down because my underwear wouldn’t stay put. I stood against the sink feeling the cool tiles on my feet and then threw my underwear in the trashcan and prayed that I wouldn’t split my khaki pants if I dropped the chalk.
As I’ve aged, I’ve learned other tricks. We have lint rollers in each bathroom, in my desk drawer, and in my car. While that may not be that unusual, it is interesting that I use them to clean lint Inside of my clothes. The lint roller collects the random fibers from the dryer or strands of my hair that slither down my back during the day.
At least twice a week I’m lifting my shirt in the kitchen looking for a stray hair that picks my stomach or chest. Some days I sit on the edge of the bed and threaten to call-in because I can’t find any comfortable clothes; even ones I’ve worn more than thirty times can attack when I least expect it.
To combat this issue, I use fabric softener in the washing machine. And I purchase much more forgiving fabrics. Even jeans are enhanced with spandex and lycra. Soft sweaters and leggings are the norm. Jeans have given way to yoga pants. I still buy that same brand of cotton underwear. I buy socks and pass them along to my daughters if I can’t wear them. I make adjustments.
So next time I disappear from a party and I’m not drinking on the couch, or lurking awkwardly in the corner, I’m probably in the bathroom looking for the tiny cat hair that somehow slipped by me and my lint roller when I got dressed for the gathering.
And while I understand the diagnoses can vary, my fight for comfort in the physical world, linked to my emotional one, began long before my mother dragged me through the fabrics in the department stores and that fight for comfort continues today.
Thank you for reading to the end. Resources are linked below. I’ve also done neural retraining to desensitize myself. I will share more on that experience soon. Stay tuned. More on my mental health and personal experiences can be found in my Collections where I share my other art, poetry, and stories.
