On Underwear

Letters to a Leaving Mormon: Chapter Five

On Underwear

I took my garments off at a tumultuous time in my life. Externally everything looked perfect, but internally, I was riding the waves of intense postpartum depression and anxiety that showed up with the birth of my third child, Hilde. My husband was in the final years of an intense PhD program and our living quarters were tight. I was recovering from a third c-section birth, nursing a newborn, and dogged about the wearing of my garments. I did so even when the seams rubbed on my scar in uncomfortable ways. Even when nursing a baby meant digging through layers of clothing—a shirt, a bra, garments, and a nursing cover. I wore my garments because, despite being an intelligent and informed person, I held on to the belief that if I was obedient, God would heal me of the emotional instability I was facing. 

We lived in the Bay Area, in a racially diverse section of Palo Alto. One afternoon we went as a family to IKEA. I left the house in shorts that seemed amply long. We had hardly entered the store when I realized I was wrong about the shorts being long enough. Around me I saw people from many different countries and backgrounds. I wanted a communal experience there in the store, but my garments, like saran wrap on my legs, stuck out from my shorts in a way that drew attention. I could see people looking at me, this young woman with three kids, and my garments seemed to draw a clear and distinct line around me. The garments felt like a visual symbol of the distance between me and the people walking through the store. I just wanted to be a part of that human messiness and simplicity, but I felt apart. I felt as if I were a walking island.