A friend came to help me do some packing last week, and specifically to help me sort through my clothes. I have a lot of clothes (we counted 15 white shirts amongst the other items) and, clearly, there was a lot of sorting needed.
In the course of the sorting, we came across a cute lil black cardigan that I don’t wear. In fact I’m not sure I’ve ever worn it – besides which it doesn’t quite fit anymore because of my current issues with the Weight Thing. My friend is going overseas later this year and needs just such an article for her trip, so I said she could have it.
She texted me the next day to say thank you, and to say how wonderful the cardi smells. How it (like my wardrobe) smells of me.
I found this odd. Not that the cardi would smell of me, but that she’d think the smell is wonderful. I’ve always thought I was a creepy stinky character best kept away from. I found my friend’s comments both touching, but also weird because they were again calling into question things I’ve always thought about myself.
I mustered courage to tell my therapist about this. She was visibly shocked that I would think I stink. I do. I always have.
Neither my therapist nor I have any idea where this comes from. I suspect it’s another one of those things with roots in my f*cked up childhood.
As Butterfly would say: this is why you shouldn’t f*ck kids.