DRESSED TO KILL
I used to look quite comically dishevelled.
There is no need to dress that up.
After the stroke, and after years in an obese body, I more or less gave up trying to dress properly. I wore badly fitting everything. Clothes were not helping. They were joining the argument against me.
They seemed to say, “This body cannot be dressed.”
So I stopped expecting much.
Going out in public then did not feel like being unnoticed. It felt more like being quietly assessed, quickly dismissed, or politely avoided.
A room full of people can feel like a row of silent witnesses when you already feel wrong inside your own clothes.
Then, slowly, something changed.
Fasting took some of the heaviness out of the body.
Breathwork changed the way I lived inside it.
Not dramatically. Not as a project. More like a daily return.
Breath by breath. Morning by morning. The body became less of an accusation and more of a place I could inhabit.
And now the clothes fit.
They sit properly. They do their job. They let me move through the room without adding commentary.
Maybe no one is looking.
But now that feels different.
Not invisibility as humiliation.
Invisibility as ease.
Just me, dressed well enough, carrying myself differently, not needing the crowd to confirm it.
And somewhere underneath all that, the old dishevelled version of me gets a little mercy too.
He was not ridiculous.
He was overloaded.
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