My Girdle Is Killing Me!

Chapter 6: Panic In The Streets

That September I moved into the bedsit where I’d stay during the next three years at university. The first few weeks flew past. There were so many things to do – getting my bearings round the university and the town, all the pre-term bureaucracy, meeting other new students who were equally as out-of-their-depth, then settling into the routines of lectures, tutorials and lab work. Before I knew it, we were almost in November.

And as the initial whirlwind of activity abated and life settled into a pattern, I had my first panic attack. I was leaving for the first lectures of the day when it hit me. An overwhelming feeling of...well...panic – a sense that something was terribly wrong. I had no idea what was happening as I came out in a sweat, my heart started racing, I started shaking and felt like I was about to throw up. I stepped down a side street, leaned against a wall and closed my eyes, unable to understand what was happening to me and scared out of my mind. After a few minutes of trying to breathe deeply, I started to get back in control of myself and hurried to the lecture hall as I was now running late.

I had hoped that this had been some one-off freak occurrence, but over the next few weeks these attacks became more common. Reading up what I could about such things in the library, I tried to identify what it was in the back of my mind that might be causing these increasingly frequent episodes. I’d started having turns in lectures, so I’d taken to sitting in the back row where no-one would notice me as I struggled not to make an exhibition of myself. I tried to spot some kind of pattern to them, but the only thing I noticed was that they never occurred when I was at home – they only happened when I was out and about. It wasn’t much to go on. The Christmas break came, and fortunately I was fine at home. But, on the first day back, I had a bad attack. What the hell was the cause?

Lying half-asleep in bed one night in early January, my mind wandered back to my school experiences. Pete telling me they’d better not catch me at school not “properly dressed” – code for not wearing my panty girdle. Ian preventing me from going to the toilets at lunchtime, as that’s where I used to get some mid-day relief by taking my girdle off for a few minutes. I remembered risking it anyway a few times in those early days, when I was having a bad time of it and just had to get that damn thing off me at all costs. I remembered those times sitting in a cubicle in a state of nerves in case they caught me, in a state of near panic at not being “properly dressed”.

I sat up with a start. Surely to God that couldn’t be it? Those bastards were still up in Scotland and I was down here in central England – I was hardly going to get a tap on my backside to check on my choice of underwear. But the thought had unsettled me and I hadn’t slept well that night.

By mid-January, I was getting an attack to some degree or other most days and it was becoming debilitating – I could not go on like this. With the benefit of hindsight all these years later I should have seen a doctor or a university counsellor, but the idea never occurred to me. Or perhaps I’m being revisionist here – on the one occasion the idea did occur to me, I dismissed it as I couldn’t face the prospect of telling them my past and my growing suspicions about the cause of my troubles.

One Saturday I was walking through the middle of the town – thankfully free of any symptoms but dreading an attack hitting me out of the blue – when I passed a department store with a display of corsetry items in the window. My mouth went dry and my heart started racing, and not because of another attack coming on. The thought had popped into my mind that there was only one way to find out if my suspicions were right, and the sooner I tried it the better.

I was a bundle of nerves as I arrived in the lingerie department. After wandering through endless displays of bras and panties, I eventually saw the small corsetry section in the distance. Display units were full of boxes of bras and girdles and my eyes scanned the panty girdles for a familiar sight. And there it was – the Berlei “Instant Slimmer”. I took a sharp intake of breath as I saw the girdle I’d worn all these years. Once I'd realised the drawer pulled out I eased it forward, trying to look at the sizes.

“Can I help you?”

I nearly jumped out of my shirt as an assistant appeared behind me. Crimson with embarrassment, I babbled in reply.

“Um...yes...I want to buy one of these. I’m not sure of the size.”

“Surely the lady told you?”

I must have been beetroot red by this point.

“I’m...er...the thing is...um...it’s for me.”

There. I’d said it. Her jaw dropped.

“YOU MEAN YOU’RE BUYING THIS FOR YOURSELF?”

I could have died on the spot – every head turned to look in our direction, staff and customers alike. I nodded and looked at her in a state of panic. She regained her composure and I guess took pity on me.

“Come with me.”

We went to a changing room where I suffered the indignity of being measured for it. She then left and returned a couple of minutes later with the girdle.

“Shall I leave you to put it on?”

I’d been planning on taking it home, but I was so flustered by now that I just nodded. She smirked and left. I took off my trainers and jeans, opened the box and pulled out the girdle, staring in horror at the familiar sight. Dear God – could I really be doing this all over again? I stepped into it and pulled it on. I hadn’t realised how much my old girdle had slackened off over the years – this brand new out-of-the-box one was an eye-opener. It must have been like this that first time when I was 14.

I dressed again and walked rather stiffly to the tills to pay. I hadn’t had a girdle on for over six months – it would take me a while to get used to it again. The assistant was waiting for me, the smirk back on her face. Behind her, two other assistants were looking at me and giggling. A couple of older customers were tut-tutting and whispering no doubt uncomplimentary things about me as I paid for my new underwear. Studiously avoiding all eye contact, I headed for the escalators and got the hell out of there. When I got outside, I leant against the wall, hands on my hips, struggling to get my head round what I’d done. I was wearing a bloody girdle again!

As soon as I got home, I hauled that thing off me and threw it on the bed – this was déjà-vu on an epic scale. I might as well have been 14 years old all over again. The next day was to be the acid test. I don't know what I feared most that morning – a panic attack or the lack of one. I put on my usual underwear, grimaced as I tugged my girdle on and got dressed. The day passed without incident. As did the next, and the next.... the panic attacks seemed to have stopped as suddenly as they had started.

By the end of January, the appalling truth was evident, and from then on I never left my bedsit without having my girdle on. I was simultaneously relieved and appalled – relieved that these disturbing attacks were over, but appalled at the cure.

And angry – in fact downright furious –at the realisation at how much these sick bastards back in Scotland had messed me up. No matter how much I told myself I was safe from them, deep in my subconscious I had become so conditioned to their rules that I still had to obey. They had me so indoctrinated that I was in effect bullying myself in their absence.

In retrospect, I wish I’d considered therapy but, as usual, my primary concern was keeping my humiliating secrets to myself. It was a choice between panic attacks, asking for help or wearing a girdle and, just as I had once before, I resigned myself to wearing a girdle as the least unpalatable option.

This, however, wasn’t the end of my psychological troubles. If anything, it was the beginning of serious mental issues that dogged me for several years. I went through a hard time back then – I must have come close to a complete breakdown. My hatred of the bullies from back at school turned inwards into a hatred of myself. Self-loathing at wearing women’s underwear. Self-loathing at being so weak as to have capitulated to the bullies – even when they were no longer on the scene. As I dressed one Saturday morning in early February, something snapped in me. If I was going to be this pathetic, then to hell with half-measures. Let’s do this thing properly!

That afternoon found me in a different department store, again standing in a changing room in as lingerie department. This time I was wearing an open girdle and longline bra with a (thankfully totally professional) assistant patiently showing me how to fasten the girdle suspenders to my stockings.

As I walked out of there, in shock at the experience of full body corsetry and with a carrier bag containing a second bra, panties, stockings and tights (pantyhose for non-UK readers), I was again accompanied by stares and occasional giggling.

Back in my room I looked at myself in the mirror in my new underwear, slumped onto the bed and cried my eyes out. But the little voice in my head was sneering at me – “this is what you deserve.” And I knew it was right. From that day on, I never left my bedsit for any reason without wearing a bra and either my panty girdle with tights or my open girdle with stockings. I hated myself for my weakness, but I knew that I deserved to live like this. I was weak and pathetic and I deserved it.