As anyone who has tried their hand at chiselling would know, it’s a very different process from that of forming and moulding from clay or some pliable substance. It’s almost like having to move around blindfolded in a room, navigating purely by sense, touch, feel, instinct.

So here I am fumbling my way through mounds of clothing items that I try on and feel whether they are a good ‘fit’ or not. They hang on my clothes rack – I look at them and none seem to bring me joy. They feel lacklustre. Many are good quality items but they are ‘not me’. I watch makeover shows and nothing excites me. What does excite me are necklines: boat-neck, slit-neck, asymmetrical cuts and drapes. Modal, tencel, polyamide, I love the feel of on my skin. Fluorescent yellow and contrasting colours, stitching and motifs make my heart sing. I thought I didn’t know, but judging from the list, I do know what I like. I am also drawn to batwings and off-the-shoulder necklines. I like it when the draping hugs me at my hips and flows and skims over my protruding belly that I am self-conscious about. I can show off my legs, no problem. I also prefer androgynous styles.

It is a tragedy of all traumatized CPTSD adult children who’ve been emotionally neglected or abused for them to lose their own sense of identity along the way then to have to rebuild, re-find and reinvent their own sense of self in later life.

This is me now.

My own inner voice and preferences drowned out by overbearing, controlling parents who stuffed my core self into a tiny box. I hammer away at dismantling the six walls my true self had been encased in. They are disintegrating, slowly, yet surely. Tentative vulnerability and self-protectiveness ensures the process is painstakingly slow. I sit in here, in my safe space, feeling my way through what is not mine, what doesn’t feel like mine, afraid to discard, uncertain whether it’s OK to do so. Fear of loss, fear of uncertainty, fear of being shamed, judged, told I’m not allowed to. I am limiting myself, and yet, I don’t know how to break free of these shackles. I’ve internalised my parents’ judgemental, critical voices and that is all I hear. What if…I let go and it looks stupid? What if…I am not accepted? By whom? Who do I care about being accepted by? Whose validation or permission am I seeking?

As a 53 year old, I am now able to grant myself the freedom and permission to choose who I want to be, how I want to be, how I want to express myself, what I choose to wear, what I choose to think, what I choose to believe. Is it finally safe to do so now?