garments

I took off my garments for the first time when I was still a church-goer, but mostly a non-believer. They were just made up by JS, after all. But the Mormon paradigm made me feel terribly guilty about it. Maybe I was doing something wrong. Wasn’t I allowing Satan to have all power over me? Didn’t the garments distinguish me as Mormon? Didn’t they protect my spirituality? Didn’t they protect me from sin? Did this mean I was going to inevitably commit adultery with the next guy I saw? Hadn’t I made a covenant? So I put them back on.

Strangely, they provided a sense of comfort. I was back in my old paradigm, comfortable, wrapped in my heritage and all that is known to me.

Then I thought, this is silly. They’re just underwear. A church telling me what underwear to wear? Off again. On again. Off again. Switching back and forth with my confused worldviews. After a couple weeks, they were off for good.

I moved my pile of garments to an out-of-the-way drawer. A few months later, when I needed the drawer space, I moved them into a garbage bag in the closet. When I cleaned out the closet, I moved them into the basement storage space. A few months later (how long was it?) when I was re-arranging the basement, I took the whole bag and chucked it into the dumpster. I saved one pair and my temple clothes, for what, I don’t know. To show curiosity-seekers?

It was too anti-climactic. It was a significant day, and so insignificant at the same time. It took me a long time to be ready to actually get rid of them completely. So when I did get rid of them—and all the heavy symbolism with them—why did I choose to just toss them in the dumpster?

On the one hand, dropping them unceremoniously showed how little authority the church has over my thinking and behavior now. That's certainly a good thing. But on the other hand, I obtained them in such a ceremonious (and creepy) manner, and they had influenced my daily life for years. Might it have been more catharctic to get rid of them with more, I don't know, ritual? Perhaps I wanted a little ritual. I still miss ­a little ritual.

I’ve heard of some people burning them, but that seems a little too much. Angry. These are still the sacred implements of my parents, after all.

A few words, maybe.

“Old Joe, these once marked who was a polygamist in your little cult, and they ruled my wardrobe for x years—I am done with them and you.”

Or

“Today I’m reinforcing that the church no longer rules my life.”

Or

“F--k you, G!”

Now I can’t even remember the day. Was it summer, winter? Was it sunny or night time? How long after taking them off was it? Why does it matter to me now?

Readers: What did you do? Or are you still stuck with them for various reasons?