write it out
January 04, 2013

One of the things that my mom can never figure out about me was why I don�t care about clothes. Here�s the thing about that: She never really let me have any. Since the only person she ever cared to spend money on was herself, I was never overly supplied with clothes.

What I had at any given time was barely enough to get by�and from the age of eight, I was expected to earn the money (with my paper route and other, later jobs) to buy most of what I did have. And a lot of it was cheap crap, too. Kmart figured big for every day, and my play clothes consisted of the boys� hand-me-downs. Penney�s was for �good clothes�.

If she wanted to put me on display for special occasions, she would save money by making my dress herself�in fact, the loveliest things I ever had were created by her. Uncomfortable as hell for a girl more accustomed to her brothers� old Buster Brown shirts and shorts, but they were truly beautiful creations. (Another astonishing talent my mother has never appreciated in herself.)

But any way. I can tell you this. If you ever wanted a surefire way to get mom into a white-hot rage, you could not beat this simple tactic: tell her you needed new clothes. To outgrow, wear out, or damage your clothing or shoes, to need dental work or glasses, to (OMG) break your glasses�these simple, natural, inevitable aspects of growing up were direct attacks on everything she held most dear, e.g. the dollars in her wallet. And that sent her into a vicious, abusive, defensive, fury.

And when I was older, and we were the same size, she added a further twist to our twisted dynamic: I would work, scrimp, save, and at last buy myself something�or make myself something after I learned to sew. And before I even got a chance to wear it�she would borrow it. And if she really liked it, she would simply keep it. Honestly. I�m serious as a heart attack here. You want some examples that stand in my memory, as clear at 49 as they were at 18?

My precious prairie blouse that cost serious money. The waistcoat I slaved over in Home-Ec. The black taffeta evening gown that was a frigging gift from my best friend�s mom!

Anyway. This is how she raised me: with the example of her spending money on herself but denying her kids, and with the practical experience of a chronically insufficient wardrobe.

And the fallout from this was not that I grew up like her.

No, what I took away was quite different. I grew up to suffer genuine, gut-wrenching anxiety over needing new clothes, to think that it was perfectly reasonable to never have more than four bras to my name, to be more concerned with pacifying others than indulging my own desires, to sacrifice my own needs to the happiness of others�a case of �do as I say, not as I do� that was taken entirely too much to heart.

Yeah. So that's pretty much wear my not being into clothes got its start.