My spinal problems have gotten really bad, so I'm on partial bed rest right now.
But I miss sewing, and I'm getting really bored.
I've wanted lacy Edwardian undergarments for a long time. All that insertion and trim is
really fiddly and time-consuming. Although, it's not like I'm going anywhere. Maybe now's
the time for something detailed and slow.
I bought this super-lightweight linen a while ago, because it's such a rare find. It's lighter
than handkerchief linen and a little sheer, but it's not an open weave. Perfect for delicate
underthings.
Cutting it out from bed will be interesting.
[peaceful piano music]
I've known for a long time that hand-sewing is important for my mental health. It's grounding,
almost meditative. It just gives me this sense of rightness. Making things is essential to
who I am, so this project isn't just about having a new garment or even about keeping
busy. It's about somehow staying grounded while I'm hurting and can't do much of anything else.
Trim quite honestly scares me, but I do really love lace insertion. Machine-made cotton lace
is easy to find online. Sometimes you can even get new old stock or vintage lace, but
the modern stuff is quite nice too, and not expensive.
I've done lace insertion by machine before, but there are so many more possibilities when
working by hand. I like to figure things out on my own, and apparently I come up with good
tricks when I'm in pain? The first time I tried using a ladder stitch to baste darts,
was during the worst migraine of my life. One morning when my brain felt like mush thanks
to my medications, I realized that if you work a spaced backstitch backwards, with the
seam traveling towards your working hand instead of away from it, you can do it from the wrong
side of the fabric. This means I can sew down the lace using a strong enough stitch to hold
the garment together, at the same time as finishing the raw edges with a tiny folded hem.
I've heard a lot of people speak in hushed tones about sewing or working from bed when
they don't feel well, like it's something to be ashamed of. No one films that part,
no one posts it to Instagram. If they do, it's covered in dreamy filters and aesthetic
staging, a relaxing weekend or an interlude in their busier, more abled, better life.
No one films the messy parts. We don't talk about what's it's like for this
to be your normal. I won't lie and say I haven't made this space
aesthetically pleasing . . . or this video. I am stuck here, and I deserve to make it
nicer. But this isn't just a relaxing interlude. It isn't all pretty. I'm here because I'm
in too much pain to be anywhere else. It's frightening to think about, if it isn't your
life. It's not much fun when it is your life, either.
Sometimes, I keep sewing to take my mind off being in pain.
Sometimes, it's too much.
Sometimes the worst part isn't the pain, but
the shame of feeling like you have to hide it, because your pain makes other people uncomfortable.
So I won't hide it.
Making things beautiful— or making beautiful things— is how I make
it bearable, but if I hide what it's really like, all I'm doing is telling other people
that they should be ashamed too.
We have this idea that if someone is ill, or disabled, they shouldn't be able to do
anything but suffer. It's like being disabled, and making things, or working, or even looking
happy, are somehow incompatible. Why shouldn't disabled people have happiness, and accomplishment?
I'm not healthy right now, and maybe I never will be, but I don't have to choose between
that truth— that I have chronic pain— and being a dressmaker.
I can be both at once.
[music quiets and ends]
[rhythmic, inspiring piano]
I had so many plans for bigger, more impressive
projects this spring. I was meant to be sewing a ballgown. This feels small in comparison—
it's just underwear— but it's what I can do right now, and that's okay.
I'm not going to pretend that being stuck in bed is fine. It's not. There's so many
things I can't do from here. But, my worth is not tied to doing what an abled person can.
The things I can do, the things disabled people can do, are valuable. They may be different,
or slower, or smaller; the wider world may not recognize them at all, but they matter,
just as much.
We matter.