Unable to relax earlier in the week, my husband told me to take my shoes off and I will feel more comfortable. It was around nine in the evening and he was confused to why I still had my shoes on. He never feels relaxed if they are on all day and prefers to wander around the house barefoot. I on the other hand feel safe with shoes on, leading my husband to be confused at my response,
“Why do you feel safe?” he asked.
“This way, I make a run for it,” I answered casually.
He laughed; it was an odd reply. He questioned it again and I realised why I was saying this.
My father always berated me for wearing shoes in the house. He hated that I was so insolent and did not comply with his endless rules. I would refuse to take them off. They were my security and in the times where he had thrown or locked me out of the house in a fit of rage, at least I would have my shoes on and keep an ounce of my dignity. The moments where he would threaten me and raise his hand sharply to my face, I would be able to run, run out of the front door in fear. My shoes saved me in those traumatic times and kept me calm. I lived my life on edge with my father around, him watching my every move, waiting to jump. Me, always aware of putting a foot wrong and upsetting him. I needed something to keep me calm and keep me safe.
Shoes did that.