CHAPTER TWO

THE UNDRESSING

An itch finds me every fall without fail.

An urge to run from the weight of daily responsibilities and the sometimes burdensome load of adulthood. When the leaves threaten to start falling, I become overwhelmed with the urge to start over, to wipe the slate clean. I daydream about traveling far away, where no one knows my name, and slipping into a different life. I think it’s an inherent defect, something wrong within me that prevents me from being content. In the space where contentment should be, the urge to run was mistakenly programmed deep within my software.

I’ve been told I just need to get over it — to try harder to stick with things: jobs, hobbies, people, places. I need to grow up and realize that this is just life — it’s not satisfying or a place to chase pleasure. I need to be more responsible. And, historically, I’ve believed other people know better than me. I’ve dissected my being in hopes of unearthing a reason, a source to blame for this shortcoming that haunts me.

I’ve blamed my sun sign for my wandering eyes pulling me toward anything - or anyone - inherently beautiful. I’ve blamed the stars in my chart for my inclination toward freedom and fear of anything that might restrain me. I’ve tried to make sense of my tendencies using the planets because nothing else makes sense to me — other people must be right: it’s not the way I am supposed to be, it’s something I need to fix.

Sometimes I fantasize about what if something wasn’t wrong. What would it feel like to shed the layers of myself that I have so carefully put on? What would it be like to reveal what lies underneath? What would it be like to always live in the safe anonymity I feel when I am somewhere far away where no one knows me? What would it feel like to run and never return?

I picture these moments of escape almost like undressing myself in front of a floor-length mirror. I marvel at my reflection, bundled up as if I have just stepped in from the grip of an arctic winter.

I look at the heavy fur hat donning my head and filtering my thoughts, the scarf wrapping itself around my neck and stifling my speech, the heavy coat the precise weight of ten thousand expectations, the gloves that stop true connection with another, and the cumbersome boots that do not allow me to run freely. 

I put all these on myself, but why?

I stare into the mirror, seeing no trace of the girl I used to be or the one I thought I’d become.

I wonder what lies beneath. I wonder if anything is left of her.

I grip the fingertip of a glove and remove it, exposing my sense of touch and the possibility to connect without barriers of shame. My bare fingers run along the armor that covers me, the shrouds that shield others from seeing who I am.

I place my hands atop my hat and glide them along the sides slick with melting snow, deciphering whether I can stand to lose another protective covering. I unfasten the buckle beneath my chin and slide it off gingerly. I look at myself in the mirror, with my hands and mind exposed.

A layer of conditioning removed, what do my thoughts look like to me now? The real ones, the messages that appear, not the self-deprecating thoughts that encourage me to criticize my matted hair and flushed face, but the ones that dispense what’s meant to be like a raindrop landing in my mind. Do I recognize them? More importantly, do I listen? The drops fall, one by one:

Take.

It.

Off.

Keep.

Going.

One after another, they drip, little hits of my intuition returning to its rightful place, finally making itself known.

I feel the lightness of my head, the clarity that comes with removing things that are heavy and the peace that comes with crafting a home within yourself. I turn to the side, looking at my armor from all angles. If I remove it, I am exposed — seen. My heart is open to love. My voice is free to speak.

This armor keeps me caged, contained. It gives me rules to adhere to and expectations to shrink to. Without it, I am me. And, I must ask, who is that?

I’m not sure I know anymore. Censoring my thoughts and words has become a finely tuned practice, the ability to discern what people want to hear and when reinforced and refined with time. A reassuring smile, a well-timed laugh, a light jest, a compliment. I’ve honed the practice of giving people exactly what they want from me, becoming buried under expectations in the process.

As the scarf around my neck grows tighter, my truth is buried, buried. If I give it up, who gets the ten-inch nonstick skillet or the bookshelf? I finger the scarf, staking its claim around my throat, willing the fabric to give.

I remember all the times I pressed my lips closed for fear that what I locked in my mind would escape given the chance. I worry that my mouth will involuntarily open and spout what I have hidden. What if there is truth in all I want to say? And sometimes the only thing scarier than keeping up a lie is following the truth. Who will I be if I let it out?