Most of my hobbies are not original.
I started writing because my friend did it. I took self-defense classes because my friend did it. I rode horses because my friend did it. And I taught myself how to sew a full 18th-century ensemble from almost-top to almost-bottom in 2 months, only partially to spite my friend who I had just fallen out with.
It was actually the last thing we fought about. We always fought about dumb little things to avoid the big things. She was assembling a late Victorian costume and sewing parts of it, and I was jealous because I wanted historical clothing, too but couldn't afford a sewing machine. It was after the friendship was ended and the long, dark hours of winter quarantine were closing in, that I posted an inquiry on Facebook to see if anyone local had an old sewing machine I could buy for cheap. A long shot, maybe, but I needed something to do. I had dedicated an unhealthy amount of myself to keeping that friendship afloat, and now that it was over, I was left adrift.
By some stroke of luck, a month later, I ended up with a free sewing machine, and for Christmas I received my first bolts of fabric, needles and thread, gloriously sharp scissors, and a pin cushion that quite frankly scared me a bit. (I'm not afraid of needles, but I do have a very strong startle-flinch reaction to pricking myself.)
I had never touched a sewing machine in my life before and had a single, very thin book from Amazon to show me how to do it. For hours I practiced on old cloth napkins, sewing wobbly lines up and down, and making "well, it's still straighter than me" jokes to my friends over text.
Once I was satisfied that I could create something resembling a seam, I jumped straight from my little Amazon book into the world of youtube historical sewing tutorials. My clothing of choice was 18th century. Not the same as what my ex-friend had been making, but similar enough that I could garner some bitter sense of satisfaction from it. I would start with the shift and move on to the stays, and eventually the bodice and skirts. If I didn't fail. I didn't know what I would do if I failed. I needed to be able to do this, and I needed to love it. Otherwise, I was lost.
But as it turned out, that project probably saved me. It gave me something to do, let me distract myself as I slowly picked up the pieces one by one and (literally and metaphorically) stitched them back together, figuring out who I was without my best friend.
The problem with having the same hobbies as someone, and severe anxiety, was that in the back of my mind it was always a competition. And she was always winning. I sought her approval in everything I did, everything I made, comparing every minute detail and never finding myself measuring up.
Suddenly, I had no one to compare to. There was no competition. I was creating something for me, and no one else. There was just me, and how far I had come... by myself.
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About the Creator
maisie
prose, short stories, and occasional poetry of the mystery, crime, and psychological horror variety
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