A therapeutic relationship in the fitting rooms

Note: Update below, at the end of this post.

She was in her late fifties, perhaps, and came into the fitting room area to try on some blouses. I encouraged her to come out and show them to me as she tried them on.

First blouse: short-sleeved semi-tailored lilac pinstripe. I suggested to her it was too big in the shoulders. She told me that she’d had breast surgery, and now her breasts were asymmetrical in size, shape, and even direction, so she needed the blouse to be loose to hide this fact. She was subtle about it, but I could tell she was gauging my reaction. Which was: Acceptance. I’m not afraid of your condition. Let’s deal with what we’ve got here. I will hold this as a safe space for you.

She went deeper: The blouse fit just fine around the middle, and would be too tight if she wore a smaller sized blouse. She’d gained some weight. Her confession was loaded with shame, frustration, self-anger. Her hands spread out as she explained her increased girth. Well, it sounds as though you’ve had a lot going on lately. She smiled with palpable relief. Yes, I certainly have.

So we discussed how the blouse was a good colour for her, and what bras might work to provide a better appearance of balance without causing her pain. She was very concerned about her nipples showing through her tops, and shared how she had always been offended when she’d seen other women who hadn’t dressed in a way to hide their nipples. Had their mothers not raised them properly? My mother's no longer here, so I have to tell myself I can't leave the house looking like that!

We talked about how the blouse could be tailored to take in the shoulders so it could better fit her. She had a job working with the public, so she wanted to look respectable and professional. She was playing around with the shoulder seam, and at one point I felt compelled to mention that she shouldn’t shorten the sleeves at all, as they would look a little odd if she did. Well, maybe they could, she started to say, and then she saw how shortening the sleeve would expose the loose skin on the back of her arms, and strenuously vowed that she would never wear something that would make them visible to the public. It’s normal, I said. She shared with me that when she was in school, she had a teacher who had loose skin around her arms, and as a young woman she couldn’t understand how her teacher – a strong, active woman – had let this happen to herself. And yet now here she was. I nodded and told her I understood, that I had started to stop myself whenever I found myself thinking, “Oh God, please don’t make me work with that person, or let THAT happen to me”, because sure enough …

Did you ever hear the joke about how to make God laugh? she asked. I hadn’t. Tell Him YOUR plans, she said.

She went back into the fitting room to try on another blouse. The next one, another extra large, was too big in every way, but the same one in a smaller size fit her beautifully. Her eyes had a little more sparkle now, and her posture was a little straighter. She asked me whether the seams that went over the breasts and down the sides looked improper or would draw too much attention to her chest. No, it gives you an hourglass shape, and generates the impression of symmetry. It looks wonderful on you. Sincerely. The colour is fantastic on you too.

Red’s my colour. A smile with new confidence.

Another blouse, another conundrum. This time, the neck was wide enough that some scarring above her breast was exposed. If I looked closely, I could see the scarring, but it mostly looked like some broken blood vessels. When they tell you that you need some tests, she said, you do everything they suggest. I never thought to ask whether they would leave a scar. I had more people look at my breasts in one month than in the rest of my life combined. Gets to the point you walk into a room and open up your shirt. No modesty left.

But it went further. I don’t want to be seen as showing off my scars or wearing a sign on my chest that will make people offended or feel uncomfortable. When I was going through all this my family didn’t want to talk about it. At all.

My heart wanted to break for her. I couldn’t imagine going through everything she had, and the subsequent painful insecurity and shame, and not having the support of her loved ones. They were probably just caught up in their own … Fear, she said, finishing my sentence. She knew. While I despaired of this woman’s judgment of herself (and other people), I marveled at her incredible resilience. A true survivor.

In the end, after kind words were exchanged, she left with three new blouses and new confidence. And, I hope, just a little more self-acceptance.

UPDATE: I wrote this in a hurry this morning, because it touched my heart. But I probably didn't put the emphasis where it should have been, which is how the situation allowed me to see from the outside (rather than listening to the "itty bitty shitty committee inside my head") how incredibly HARSH and JUDGMENTAL we can be to ourselves and other people. And what's the sense? Why do we hold ourselves to these ridiculous, meaningless standards of acceptable appearance/status/whatever when we're actually these amazingly strong and yet beautifully vulnerable beings?