old shirts and security blankets
Almost all weekend, I wore this old, ratty, ugly shirt that I've had for about ten years now. It's ripped in places and has stains in various places. I never loved this shirt, in fact I always found it rather unappealing. Despite that I've kept it all these years, even after it became too baggy to wear during the day. It transfered from daytime wear to nighttime wear effortlessly. On my crappiest days, it's the shirt I pull out to wear around my room. Sometimes with baggy baby blue boxer shorts, sometimes with baggy light blue sweatpants, and sometimes without anything else. It's long enough to be a nightgown at this point and I've been treating it as such for the past several days. I spent the majority of my weekend curled up on my chair with the fabric of this shirt pulled taut across my knees.
Last night the reason I keep this shirt around hit me. It's my form of a security blanket. I don't know how or why the attachment formed but there it is. It brings me a sense of comfort and even history. Friends I had, bonds made and lost. Memory of the county fair I went to in eighth grade where my chocolate ice cream dripped from the cone down the front of it. The stain long gone, but the remembrance remains. My grandma giving me the shirt as a hand me down from an older and distant cousin in sixth grade. I can still remember the church parking lot and my gratitude. Tears cried over broken hearts and bitter circumstance.
As much as my past can hurt, there are still those parts I don't want to let go. They're the kind of reminders I need, where I was and how far I've come since then. But also the good things, moments that sometimes get hidden in the clutter. So I hold on to a physical symbol of all that. And I'm learning to be okay with those kinds of things.
Last night the reason I keep this shirt around hit me. It's my form of a security blanket. I don't know how or why the attachment formed but there it is. It brings me a sense of comfort and even history. Friends I had, bonds made and lost. Memory of the county fair I went to in eighth grade where my chocolate ice cream dripped from the cone down the front of it. The stain long gone, but the remembrance remains. My grandma giving me the shirt as a hand me down from an older and distant cousin in sixth grade. I can still remember the church parking lot and my gratitude. Tears cried over broken hearts and bitter circumstance.
As much as my past can hurt, there are still those parts I don't want to let go. They're the kind of reminders I need, where I was and how far I've come since then. But also the good things, moments that sometimes get hidden in the clutter. So I hold on to a physical symbol of all that. And I'm learning to be okay with those kinds of things.