Be Yourself - or Else
by Malcolm
Malcolm has already contributed several articles to this blog. I am therefore happy to bring you his latest contribution, which I am sure readers will find interesting. He has also sent me a small album of photos, with commentary. I will present these later.
Shortly before my 22nd birthday I wound up in hospital with burns to more than 40% of my body as a result of an unhappy combination of too strong a dose of hallucinogenic mushrooms, the presence of a less-experienced (with drugs) friend and a paraffin heater.
I was six weeks in hospital and received skin grafts to my legs and right arm. I was expected to have a second operation to graft onto my back too, but it was healing anyway by that time and there was insufficient undamaged skin elsewhere to use as donor skin, so I was spared a second op. But I was left with some pretty severe scarring and it was fully three months before I was completely free of wounds to dress.
I received huge amounts of support and sympathy from friends and family who accepted I was the victim of an accident, though I may have been careless and foolish. My sister was the only one to ask me the question, “Do you know why you did that to yourself?” Whatever I may think of her philosophy of life where one is wholly responsible for one’s life’s circumstances, it was an interesting question to consider. So I asked myself what I got out of the whole experience.
Obviously I got a lot of love and attention and it became clear who really cared for me. But I also got pressure garment therapy, the existence of which was completely unknown to me. The first time the nurses encased my legs in “tubigrip” pressure bandages I was taken quite by surprise and embarrassed that some clear evidence of arousal at suddenly finding myself dressed in white stockings by domineering females would be remarked upon. It wasn’t and I quickly got more used to the daily procedure.
After hospital, pressure garment therapy was supposed to continue for two years, 23 hours a day, and if I’d managed something close to this I probably would have got a better long term result with the scars. But the “tubigrip” top and crotchless tights were often too hot (unless you didn’t wear anything else apart from a light-weight pair of shorts, which would have been far too embarrassing) and the heavy-duty lycra suits, which were supposedly made-to-measure, never fitted very well and were quite uncomfortable, though I did get used to sleeping in them.
One of the nurses had told me of a former patient who had been recommended wearing support tights and I remember passing this information on to my mother at the time (who didn’t seem to think it relevant), but no doubt because I hadn’t, at 22, accepted myself as a tights lover, and although I had every opportunity, living alone within four months of the accident, I wasn’t ready to go hunting for tights and leotards for myself. It would, however, have been much better than going without any tight wrapping during the day which became the norm unless the scarring was giving me particular grief in which case I would endure the suit at least for a while.
After some years the scars settled into their permanent, non-reactive state and I live with a few minor ramifications like rapid body heat loss (for example after swimming) due to the absence of adipose (fatty skin) tissue, dryness and inflexibility. When the weather is really warm, as it often is here in sub-tropical NSW, these are scarcely issues at all, but, once the mercury drops a bit, wrapping up tightly is the best policy.
It took something like twenty years for the penny to drop finally when I realized that I now had a cast-iron excuse for publicly appearing in the skin-tight clothing of my choice, namely thick winter-weight tights and figure-hugging (women’s) sweaters. And I can’t wear long trousers over these (essential) tights because that would be too hot and uncomfortable unless it’s a really cold night, hence the shorts. Yes, but red tights? Well, that just makes it more fun. (Of course the colours are usually more sober, but at home the family have to put up with this part of my personality displaying itself.)
I don’t completely believe that I had such a need to present to the world a socially acceptable reason for my wearing women’s clothing that my subconscious mind contrived the circumstances where I would end up badly burnt. But then I don’t completely disbelieve it either. I have to admit that life does seem to give me what I want, whether I’m always fully conscious of the wanting or it becomes apparent later. And the whole clothes thing has had a huge presence in my psyche since early childhood and at times continues to preoccupy me with great intensity. I can accept that now and be happy with it and enjoy that part of me without confusion or guilt, but it wasn’t like that at 21.
So I guess the point of this story is to re-iterate the message, expressed often here by many contributors, have the courage to be yourself. It is much more harmful to deny who you really are (and could be even catastrophic) than to express your true self. That doesn’t mean going on national television in tights, or even to the supermarket if it’s not right for you, but it does involve finding a way of being yourself that you can comfortably live with. And doing is better than endless talk with rationalizations and justifications. There’s nothing to apologize for. Wear your tights.
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