Rubbish, Tumbling and Golden

[smokingboot]

So chums came and all our plans for going out fell apart. Instead we talked for something like 48 hours straight. It was excellent.

The valerian and chamomile tea is working a charm. For the last few days my sleep has been a lot better, and I am feeling more nourished, to the extent that I went into Edinburgh yesterday to get myself measured for bras. I have not bought any for a long time, and it's getting ridiculous.

'Girrrrl, there's literally nothing on this label, its so faded,' said the assistant. All my stuff is like that. I have to buy more clothes. Chum has massive thrift shop fu, and is great at spotting bargains among tat. She had inspired me, and R has been begging me to buy new clothes, but I don't like shopping at the best of times. Anyway, it had to be done. Right now, I spill out of my old bras like the mother of muffins.

Fitting services then; M&S you have to book for, Bravissimo... well, it was tucked away. So I popped into Anne Summers, and asked if they had such a service.

'We do,' said an assistant, ' I can do it for you now if you want.' The assistant was a transwoman, very big and broad. The shop was full of people, and the fitting room was just down the end. My choice, I decided to do this rather than go on down to Bravissimo. There should have been a choice of assistants for the sake of nervous women and women of faith, but was I all right? I had already shrugged and agreed so clearly on some level I had no worries with it. The fitting room was very close to the main part of the shop. If anything untoward happened, I would punch her gut and raise merry hell getting out, but my instinct told me nothing would happen.

She was absolutely fine, non touching except to check the label, almost non looking except in the most detached way. She didn't measure me; the idea was just to bring me bras until we found one that fitted. I kept myself covered, she got out of the way before I started to change, there was a button to push when I was ready for assistance, it was all very respectful and felt safe to the extent that having found the bra that worked, I was ready to search for more...

And then I wasn't. Nothing in her behaviour or demeanour changed, she was still non contact,non looking, friendly but not too friendly etc. The only factor was that I suddenly noticed, when she came into the tiny changing room, how huge she was against the door frame, that while her gut might be soft, her reach far extended mine, she seemed twice my size, and then it was there, flashback straight to the attack. 16 years ago now, almost mastered, but still, just a moment, a thing. And then I realised that it had been rising all this time, that my decision about potential attack, scream, and run, was not some everyday estimate of a shopping situation, but emblematic of the old PTSD, hypervigilance emerging slowly but aggressively, inappropriate. I had done well not to let this impact either of us, but now I had to get out. So I closed down the session, paid for the bra and left. It was constructive, and none of this could be laid at her door. She could not help her height, her size, or my recognition. She had behaved perfectly and had not threatened me in any way. Smiling I paid, got out, walked fast along the pavement to Waverley station.

I went home, every sense aware. The evening was coming in fast, and the late sun met me in a little tunnel between the road and the golf club. In came the light, so brilliant yet deep, gold and more gold, more and more, with no bottom to that feeling, no need to come out the other side. I wanted to plunge my hands in and scoop up the shining warmth, wash my face in the light, be well.

And I remember Whimsy describing me a long time ago saying You may be rubbish, but you're not broken. You're tumbling and golden!

Rubbish, tumbling and golden. That'll do.