> CD #14: On hate-wear and despair
To feel something—anything—in the morning when every morning promises more of the same
Last week, Reyhan Harmanci wrote in the New York Times about how pandemic dressing has taken a dark turn, coining the term “hate-wear” to describe all the items of clothing she continues to wear regularly despite hating how they look, how they fit and how they make her feel.
A hate-wear is when you put on the clothing even though — because? — it makes you feel bad. Neither stylish nor particularly comfortable, yet constantly in rotation.
Let me tell you: I felt seen. I have been hate-wearing this sweater for ten months now, pulling it out at least once a week even though I find it repulsive. (Actually, I wore it four out of the last seven days, which is embarrassing but true.) I hate it the moment I put it on in the morning and spend much of the day tugging at its neck and sleeves, annoyed by my scratchy self-imposed bondage. And yet I feel helplessly drawn to it and cannot bring myself to get rid of it.
Another piece of hate-wear I have on regular rotation is a camisole I bought at the same time as the shrunken sweater—a time of great fogginess and poor decision-making, apparently. I got it to bump my order up to “free” shipping and replace a much-beloved silk camisole worn so thin that, one day at the office (remember offices?), the back literally tore apart as I turned to ask someone a question. It was beyond repair.
When the new camisole came, I hated it instantly: the pattern, the unflattering length, and the feel of the fabric (100% polyester, never again). I wear it under cardigans, but it’s weirdly slippery and uncomfortable. Every time I put it on, it feels a little like I’m punishing myself.
And that’s where I disagree with the conclusion Harmanci comes to in the NYT article. She says her hate-wearing stems from having lost some essential part of her identity:
Of course I didn’t know what to wear; I didn’t know who I was. When I left the house — mostly to walk a few blocks and then turn around — I obsessively clocked people’s outfits for any hints of what I could be. (A lot of leggings and sneakers. Workout wear. Not helpful.) Hence, hate-wear. Like an old wannabe goth, I wear ill-fitting black pants on the outside because that is how I feel on the inside.
But I still know who I am (as much as anyone does at any point in time anyway). Instead of expressing an identity crisis, I think I am simply hate-wearing to get a rise out of myself. To feel something—anything—in the morning when every morning promises more of the same.
Or maybe it’s akin to hate-watching a TV show (which I also do on the regular) to distract myself from the shortcomings of my personal life by diverting that hateful energy into criticizing someone else’s bad choices.
Of course, hate-wear is my own choice, so that comparison does not hold up entirely. But there’s a nugget of truth in here somewhere: In a way, I am channelling a certain amount of self-loathing and despair into a sweater or a camisole, where it can be safely contained while I wait out the pandemic. Could hate-wearing be good for my mental health? I really don’t know.
What I do know is that hatred in the right hands can be delicious fodder and therefore has value, even when it unsettles. As evidence, I give you this brilliant poem:
Hate Poem
by Julie SheehanI hate you truly. Truly I do.
Everything about me hates everything about you.
The flick of my wrist hates you.
The way I hold my pencil hates you.
The sound made by my tiniest bones were they trapped in the jaws of a moray eel hates you.
Each corpuscle singing in its capillary hates you.Look out! Fore! I hate you.
The little blue-green speck of sock lint I'm trying to dig from under my third toenail, left foot, hates you.
The history of this keychain hates you.
My sigh in the background as you pick out the cashews hates you.
The goldfish of my genius hates you.
My aorta hates you. Also my ancestors.A closed window is both a closed window and an obvious symbol of how I hate you.
My voice curt as a hairshirt: hate.
My hesitation when you invite me for a drive: hate
My pleasant "good morning": hate.
You know how when I'm sleepy I nuzzle my head under your arm? Hate.The whites of my target-eyes articulate hate. My wit practices it.
My breasts relaxing in their holster from morning to night hate you.
Layers of hate, a parfait.
Hours after our latest row, brandishing the sharp glee of hate,
I dissect you cell by cell, so that I might hate each one individually and at leisure.
My lungs, duplicitous twins, expand with the utter validity of my hate, which can never have enough of you,
Breathlessly, like two idealists in a broken submarine.
Love it.
:) Teresa
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