I guess it’s time to bring up Costuming 101.
There were six of us. We were shuffled together in a stuffy fabric room, stair stepped between available folding chairs, countertops, borrowed office chairs, and the floor. In theatre, making do was the affectionately accepted norm. Someone checked their watch. Thirteen minutes past class start. We were fidgeting, silencing our phones, exchanging brief and knowing looks each time a minute hand clicked by. Our director was nowhere to be found and we were allowing a five minute grace period before we left.
Nobler people would have stuck it out but we were not noble. We were college students. We had papers to write and cereal to eat. And by handbook technicalities, we could have left after ten minutes.
The door burst open as we were packing up our things; nineteen minutes and thirty-four seconds after start. A bewildered expression was offered, and then familiar storm clouds. We were going to get a lecture about how we should take our education more seriously...by the person who was twenty minutes late.
It was a small and silly interaction, but it was also the beginning of the end. Alas, poor Yorick.
The assignment itself was simple: twelve dresses sewn within a month to outfit the dancing ensemble for the fall musical. Ten modest forms of plain white fabric fitted at the waist, and two requiring more complicated design and delicate fabric. The two were assigned to myself and a close friend. We were each young and growing, but more than up to the challenge. Excited, in fact. That’s when the first sewing machine broke.
Hell hath arrived.
Disclaimer: theatre kids are well acquainted with the art of figuring it out. We ransacked every thrift shop and fabric store acquiring props and borrowed time for every single show. Makeup was self-acquired and self-taught in the days before YouTube was ever useful. All shows are completed on minimal amounts of sleep and striking set to save every possible scrap of wood and screw manifested into a non-negotiable life skill. If there was no time to grab dinner beforehand, actors rehearsed hungry. Splinters were mandatory for set design, and crying about it was a federal offense. If someone was dying from a mortal wound then they better figure out how to strap up the blood transfusion bag in a clever disguise and show up well before curtain. The show must go on.
That’s how we, “the two,” found ourselves on hour twenty-three desperately trying to get an ancient Singer* antique to cleft together three yards of satin at four am. Pin, sew, tangle, repeat. Curse as we rethreaded the bobbin. Cry when we couldn’t find the bobbin. Laugh in a state of drunk-by-exhaustion euphoria when we found the bobbin. Stare blankly into the void when we realized finding the bobbin didn’t matter because the tension didn’t work. The point is, we knew not to make excuses. We were also both refusing to admit that we were at our actual wits end. Not even when one of us sewed over our fingers by accident or when the other left to stay up an additional twenty-four hours to complete an activity run by the same leadership would we dare to even think about defeat. Defeat wasn’t an option.
The director refused to fix the broken sewing machine. The working one was in constant use by the costume mistress. A portable one was brought in, to be used in front of us, for...spite? I don’t know, but we weren’t allowed to touch it.
We were eventually rescued by a beautiful soul** with her parents’ modern sewing machine and two cherry limeades in tow.
…Then we were yelled at for bringing in our own equipment. And for procrastinating, even though we were on schedule. And for not getting the director a cherry limeade.
Believe it or not, the dress wasn’t the wake up call. That came on an October night walking back to the dorm post-rehearsal, after receiving a scolding for being physically unable to be in two places at once, on a schedule that the scolder created. This was the nature of our relationship, between the virtues and goodness I tried so hard to hold in my other hand. Somewhere on the way from the door and my bed a small glow I’ve grown to love wrapped me in the warmth of permission: stop trying to fix it. Just stop.
This director and I actually went back the last four years as mentor and mentee. We spent the last three on a traveling team working with students, cultivating rich moments of adventure and team comradery. It was supposed to be a good time. It was tainted by a decent amount of my own mistakes as well as something murky and muddled I avoided acknowledging until it was just too late. Emotional abuse.
It still feels weird saying it.
I didn’t know I was knee deep in it until I saw it happening to younger girls who came after me. The same jagged pattern imprinted on slightly younger faces. I witnessed all of the old questions reappear on furrowed brows: “Wait….what just happened? What am I doing wrong? How do I right this? It must be my fault. It’s definitely my fault. I’ll try harder.” I was hoping that given enough time they would make it to the other side of her favor...but no such luck. Ignoring it only made it worse.
There was outright favoritism. Subtle gaslighting. Double standards. Occasionally, a direct insult dressed up in the guise of concern. Every question treated as an accusation. Intermittent explosions of anger. Lies, if it was a really bad day. It was 24/7, because the team and the degree required 24/7 work. I have to be vague, but looking back the effects were palpable. My grades suffered. I was exhausted. I was unable to prioritize. I pushed away people I cared about to try and save this relationship. I very unintentionally but also unmistakably cowered before any form of leadership for years after. I was certain at every step of the way that if I was just a better adult, I could fix this.
I wasn’t a great adult, but it took a long time to realize it wouldn’t have helped anyway.
If it all seems subtle, or like it doesn’t exactly sound like a really a big deal—that’s kind of the point. Abuse thrives when one person is successfully made out to be crazy or oversensitive.
….When it comes to conversations about reconciliation, I feel like there’s a remnant left outside of it. If threads of humility, forgiveness, and a specific rate of return are sewn into the weak cinches, we preach that the relationship will all come out in the wash. Rips can be mended. Creases ironed out. Frays wound back in. If we are doing it right, then we must untie all the knots. If we don’t, then we are doing something wrong. It’s all well and good until every form of reaching out fails. Sometimes mending the relationship means agreeing to live under someone else’s thumb, which is no kind of life. There’s a portion of us wrestling between the belief that anything is possible and the knowledge that nothing has worked. We can’t keep saying yes to families and friendships when we feel like garbage in the middle of them. Paul doesn’t seem to be a Bible verse for that.
I don’t know. Pearls before swine, or whatever.
She didn’t understand when I walked away. I’m sure the narrative our shared friends received was ripe with hesitations, “secrets”, and faux-confusion. At the end of the day it isn’t that I don’t regret it—it’s that, for my own well being, I can’t. In the clarity of today I can see a person who felt vulnerable, deeply lonely, and terrified that they would be found wanting and incompetent. An inability to cope is what caused a hurt person to hurt people. But compassion doesn’t reverse the toll of mind games, heavy amounts of guilt, and chronic instability—especially not when that compassion has been leveraged.
Toxicity’s best defense is confusion, and pity makes for a poor bandage.
I’m working to better own my words, here, now. But in the interest of honesty I’ll also admit that I don’t love reliving this portion of my life. I’ve kept it close to the vest for a long time and will continue to do so. The only reason I’m opening up a little right now is this: I can’t shake the feeling that someone, somewhere, also needs permission not to fix it.
Not all people are your people, and that’s ok.
Someone can love you, and even like you, but that doesn’t mean that they value you or that they are for you.
If they constantly criticize in the interest of helping you “grow”, they are not your people.
If they take pride in “telling it like it is”, even though it’s usually at your expense, they are not your people.
If they think manipulating you is in your best interest, they are not your people.
If they don’t value your voice in the conversation, they are not your people.
If they treat your wins like rejection or competition, they are not your people.
If you feel like you must be going crazy in the duration of the relationship, they are not your people.
If they’ve made it clear by their actions that they don’t think you really know anything of value, they are not your people.
If they set you up for impossible standards and then berate you for failing to meet them, they are not your people.
If they go out of their way to remind you that you are expendable, they are not your people.
If they still say nice things sometimes, it doesn’t mean they are your people.
If they do not participate in healthy communication, they are not your people.
If they treat you like a predator, they are not your people.
If you are killing yourself to please them, they are not your people.
If they tell you in all seriousness that your face reminds them of a turtle...they are not your people.
This is me saying to you, my beautiful friend, that it’s ok to leave them behind. Forgiveness doesn’t mean saying it was ok. It wasn’t ok. If it was ok, there would be nothing to release.
When you are ready or brave, open your hands. I’ll be right there, cheering you on.
Footnotes:
*Whit remains my favorite person to this day because she (A) had one available and (B) trusted us with it
**Rosie is my other favorite person. She has achieved sainthood before every single one of us, don’t @ me because it’s true.
