My Girdle Is Killing Me!

Epilogue: Back To The Present

Which brings us up to the present. I'm not sure if anyone reading this book will find this ending disappointing or an anti-climax. The hero didn't overcome the obstacles set in his path, emerging out of a dark valley of despair into the sunlit uplands of a new life. In this story, the hero accepted the crappy hand he'd been dealt, pulled on his girdle and got on with life as best he could. At the risk of lapsing into gallows humour – with the body I've got as I face the prospect of heading into my sixties, a good bra and girdle combination is now an asset. You should see me when I let it all hang out!

I've described things vividly in these chapters to reflect how I remember feeling at the various stages of the journey. It's how I felt at the time, but not in the here and now. Not any more. I only ever get back into that mindset during the flashbacks that occasionally trouble me. During these little mental time-travel episodes, I'm right back in my childhood bedroom, feeling exactly how I used to feel way back then. These moments are, not to put too fine a point on it, a major pain in the arse, and are always brought on by a trigger – usually the music of the time.

ABBA is a big no-no for me, as it was an ABBA song playing that very first time – “Money Money Money”. That one is an especially effective trigger, as it takes me to that first morning: lying in bed, borderline hysterical as I know what's coming – struggling to keep myself together as I get dressed – hearing my mum calling me and almost chickening out – then slowly descending the stairs in my tight new girdle, understanding with a growing sense of horror exactly what life was now going to be like. It's crazy how something as simple as a piece of music can cause such intense emotions. Thankfully these are easing off in their frequency and intensity as I get older.

Some websites I've visited talk about PTSD/CPTSD in this regard, but I am uncomfortable using those labels for what I go through. It seems melodramatic and borderline offensive to people who have known true trauma. Trauma is about a war zone, 9/11, a school shooting, a car crash and so on – not something so trivial as disliking wearing a girdle.

I am, at last, comfortable with my way of living. I've been dressing like this for so long it's hard to remember any other way. It's obviously not the life I would have chosen, but, annoying flashbacks aside, I am finally at peace with myself. And my girdle is no longer killing me!