Naked Need

Here’s a a reassurance I need – that I can use my clothes as often as I want and not fear that I will have to do without in the future. One reason I can’t let nice clothes touch me – or even shitty clothes that I like – is because I fear using up my limited access to them. I fear the inevitable decay off all the things that I love, knowing that eventually my interactions will wear them out. Will consume from them the things that once made them great, if not ruin them outright with some more dramatic act. And that I will never be able to renew that limited resource, once it begins to wane.

And I fear that my hard use is the reason for this degradation. That other, real humans wouldn’t destroy the things they love in this way. That my monstrous existence, my inept care, my endless wanton need are responsible for this tragic situation. That if only I could control myself – could suppress my dangerous nature, could learn to better impersonate the human I will never be – that perhaps I could protect the things I love from this tragic fate, at least for a while. That if I arranged to only use them only with purest motivations and for the shortest time I could perhaps keep them safe for long enough to free them from me. For long enough for me to learn to do without.

But this is silly. It is the world that makes my clothes dirty and frayed. They are stretched and torn and sweated into not as my existence destroys them but as the world wearies us both. They grow faded and fragile and matted not because I demand too much of them but because the universe is trying to kill us all, and they travel it with me.

And of course clothes can be strengthened and renewed. Can be joined into a wardrobe that reduces their individual burden. Can be layered together to protect each other and me. Can be used in more than one role. Can be laundered and repaired. Can be shared with others. Can even be retired when the world finally claims them. Can be replaced if they are no longer suited to a role that is still desired.

But I didn’t have access to clothes. Could not depend on a deep and varied wardrobe to aid me as I navigated the challenges of the world. Did not have access to laundry or repair. Did not have enough for myself to possibly participate in sharing. And I was trained to understand that this was my failing, my perverse need for more, my careless gluttony upon the world. That real humans were less demanding, less destructive, less disgusting. That the world was better without me corrupting it. That expecting clothes to exist in my life was already selfish, and that hoping for them to adapt to my greedy need was unforgivable.

And so I need your reassurance. That I can have enough clothes to meet all my needs. That I can have more than one type of need. That I can use more than one type of clothes to meet them. That I can share with you when I can offer protection or joy that your wardrobe lacks, without fear of contaminating you. That I can share from you when I have need, without fear that I will deprive you of things that to need and love. That I can choose clothes for reasons other than durability against my wear. That I can wear nice things as often as I like, and still expect to have them on the future. To expect they’ll still be nice after close and repeated contact with me.

I got a blue sweater today. Vibrant and patterned and beautiful and soft and warm. But thin and fragile and requiring special laundering, not suited for all weather and possible to damage even if I am careful. So I will love it from afar and never wear it. Will watch it slowly decay in my closet, unused. Will keep it apart from me even if I put it on, to be sure it is not contaminated. I won’t be able to feel it’s warmth or it’s softness or see how it shares its vibrancy or beauty or uniqueness. But at least I will keep it safe. Not from the world, which claims all things eventually. But at least safe from me.

Help me imagine that this sweater is for me.

Help me imagine that you are.

ZiB

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Sent from a phone.