Swathed

My passion is guilt wrapped. It is suffocated beneath my comforter. A year slipped by while I was asleep. As I lay, mummifying, I dream of who I once was. The girl who was always making. The girl with fabric pieces scattered on her floor and string stuck to her clothes. The girl with pin pricks in her fingers and needles in her bed. I couldn’t even remember when she died.

I went to a semester of art school. For many reasons, it was not right for me. My head had always been swirling with anxiety, but at school it mutated into deep depression. At some point the bubble had to burst. The thoughts that had always been humming in the back of my mind grew to a roar.

The poison in my head trickled out slowly into the art I made. I thought that I could only make things of value when I felt like sludge at the bottom of a bucket. I would wring all the emotion out of myself. Splatter it on a canvas. Sadness was my medium and everything I made reflected it. Sadness is not beautiful or meaningful, it's just sad. It still hurts me to see some of the things I made there. Devoid of the love that brought me there. Boring, washed out dirty-mirror reflections.

And just like that I decided I would never create again. With no happiness left, there was no passion either. I accepted that I would succumb to the elements, the barren, colorless void.

Until one day in March 2021.

My sister needed a dress for the premiere of her school musical. I awoke to the springtime, and the challenge, and the love I have for my sister.

The winter began to melt into the background, my icy thoughts soon followed. I felt the sting of creativity behind my eyelids. It had been so long, I had forgotten what it felt like to want to make something. A little twisting under my sternum. Itching in my fingers. Pin pricks on my shoulders. I decided I would make her a gown. I settled on a silky, floral fabric. Navy blue with watercolor roses. I knew it would look beautiful on my sister, with her golden hair.

Depression had glued to my dirty sheets since the fall. But, during this particular week, I was released from my usual traps. I draft my own patterns. Violent individuality. I inflict my joy on the paper. Little blue measuring tape in hand. Every pencil stroke a defiance of who I had been for the past 7 months.

My scissors balk at the idea of cutting fabric. I have not been gentle with them. I am not gentle with the instruments of my creation, including my own body.

In a 48 hour whirlwind I managed to construct a simple, but lovely dress. It fit my sister nicely. The rush and the pounding blood subsided, the storm waned, but I couldn’t forget that feeling. The squirming in my rib cage. Tendrils trying to escape. Strings tied to my fingers that pull me out of bed like a marionette.

It is terrifying to create. Passion is terrifying. But, the cries of my passion are no longer muffled by guilt. I no longer hate myself for giving up. I love myself for even wanting to try. The thrill. That is my passion. So no, this is not a love letter to my craft. Sewing will not save my life. Passion can not cure me. It is merely a product of my joy, the love I have for myself.