I sewed lacy Edwardian underwear without getting out of bed
I sewed lacy Edwardian underwear without getting out of bed
I'm on partial bed rest, so I made hand-sewn Edwardian combination underwear with tons of lace insertion. Combinations were a Victorian underwear fashion, but this style is from the 1900s, covered with frothy ruffles and lace trim everywhere! I cut out and sewed these combinations entirely from bed, so I could take care of my disabled self and still create beautiful things.
Sewing for mental health
With my fibromyalgia and scoliosis both flaring up, I haven't been able to sew by machine or work on bigger projects. Sewing with a disability is hard, but the things that can be made by hand, or slowly, or while on bed rest are just as beautiful and worthwhile. I found the experience of sewing from bed oddly freeing, because I wasn't feeling ashamed that I couldn't sew the way an abled person could. Making art is an essential part of my mental health, and it's been hard to keep that up when my chronic pain is bad, but letting myself do it in an accessible way makes it much easier! While I do look forward to being back at the cutting table when I can, these combinations have been the project I needed to keep me going until then.
“I don’t have to choose between that truth— that I have chronic pain— and being a dressmaker.
I can be both at once.”
What are “combinations”?
Victorian combinations were a merging of the chemise and drawers, or separate top and bottom underwear, into one garment. As bodices became more and more fitted later in the 19th century, combinations did too. The expanding skirts and full-fronted bodices of the Edwardian era were echoed in 1900s combinations, with the drawers so flared they look like a petticoat! Ruffles, frills, and lace trim also became more and more common on underwear, so I chose to embrace the slow, detailed nature of handsewing and decorate my combinations with a shaped leg ruffle, lace edging, and a lace insertion design. They are made up in extremely fine, semi-sheer 2.4 ounce linen, and cotton crochet lace.
-
My spinal problems have gotten really bad, so I'm on partial bed rest right now.
But I miss sewing, and I'm getting really bored.
I've wanted lacy Edwardian undergarments for a long time. All that insertion and trim is really fiddly and time-consuming. Although, it's not like I'm going anywhere. Maybe now's the time for something detailed and slow.I bought this super-lightweight linen a while ago, because it's such a rare find. It's lighter than handkerchief linen and a little sheer, but it's not an open weave. Perfect for delicate underthings.
Cutting it out from bed will be interesting.
I've known for a long time that hand-sewing is important for my mental health. It's grounding, almost meditative. It just gives me this sense of rightness. Making things is essential to who I am, so this project isn't just about having a new garment or even about keeping busy. It's about somehow staying grounded while I'm hurting and can't do much of anything else.
Trim quite honestly scares me, but I do really love lace insertion. Machine-made cotton lace is easy to find online. Sometimes you can even get new old stock or vintage lace, but the modern stuff is quite nice too, and not expensive.
I've done lace insertion by machine before, but there are so many more possibilities when working by hand. I like to figure things out on my own, and apparently I come up with good tricks when I'm in pain? The first time I tried using a ladder stitch to baste darts, was during the worst migraine of my life.
One morning when my brain felt like mush thanks to my medications, I realized that if you work a spaced backstitch backwards, with the seam traveling towards your working hand instead of away from it, you can do it from the wrong side of the fabric. This means I can sew down the lace using a strong enough stitch to hold the garment together, at the same time as finishing the raw edges with a tiny folded hem.
I've heard a lot of people speak in hushed tones about sewing or working from bed when they don't feel well, like it's something to be ashamed of. No one films that part, no one posts it to Instagram. If they do, it's covered in dreamy filters and aesthetic staging, a relaxing weekend or an interlude in their busier, more abled, better life.
No one films the messy parts.
We don't talk about what's it's like for this to be your normal.
I won't lie and say I haven't made this space aesthetically pleasing . . . or this video. I am stuck here, and I deserve to make it nicer. But this isn't just a relaxing interlude. It isn't all pretty. I'm here because I'm in too much pain to be anywhere else. It's frightening to think about, if it isn't your life. It's not much fun when it is your life, either.
Sometimes, I keep sewing to take my mind off being in pain.
Sometimes, it's too much.
Sometimes the worst part isn't the pain, but the shame of feeling like you have to hide it, because your pain makes other people uncomfortable. So I won't hide it. Making things beautiful— or making beautiful things— is how I make it bearable, but if I hide what it's really like, all I'm doing is telling other people they should be ashamed too.
We have this idea that if someone is ill, or disabled, they shouldn't be able to do anything but suffer. It's like being disabled, and making things, or working, or even looking happy, are somehow incompatible. Why shouldn't disabled people have happiness, and accomplishment? I'm not healthy right now, and maybe I never will be, but I don't have to choose between that truth— that I have chronic pain— and being a dressmaker. I can be both at once.
I had so many plans for bigger, more impressive projects this spring. I was meant to be sewing a ballgown. This feels small in comparison— it's just underwear— but it's what I can do right now, and that's okay.
I'm not going to pretend that being stuck in bed is fine. It's not. There's so many things I can't do from here. But, my worth is not tied to doing what an abled person can. The things I can do, the things disabled people can do, are valuable. They may be different, or slower, or smaller; the wider world may not recognize them at all, but they matter, just as much.
We matter.
More Like This
