The Rainbow Scarf

(Yes, this post has a lot of pictures. Yes, I have said repeatedly that I hate posts with a lot of pictures. But making this scarf was an emotionally challenging experience for me, and the pictures hold a lot of significance. #sorrynotsorry)

On August 25th, in 2017, I started knitting a rainbow scarf. 

Every once in a while, when Big has time to make the trip to Walmart, we wander the crafting aisles (because we both love crafting). I linger in the yarn aisle, going through all the skeins, looking for the best variegated yarn with the most perfect color combo. Since Trump was elected in 2016, I've gravitated more toward rainbows because, as an LGBT+ person, I'm terrified of losing my rights. 

Slowly but surely, people in power keep proving my fears justified. Just a few weeks ago, Missouri legislators introduced a bill that will deem all same sex marriages "parody marriages," and void their validity, despite the Supreme Court ruling in Obergefell v. Hodges, that holds that denying same sex couples the right to marry, and all the legal status that comes with marriage, violates both the Due Process Clause and the Equal Protection Clause in the 14th amendment of the Constitution. There are other laws being put in place surrounding same sex couples and adoption, and the right to not be discriminated against in the work place based on your sexuality. I imagine some will be overturned by the Supreme Court, but I fear that many won't. And so, I've committed myself to finding, creating, and wearing rainbows. We don't have a whole lot of "extra" money (who does?), so this has relegated itself to cheap rainbow yarns, for now.

Sometime in August, Walmart had a whole end cap of Lion Brand cupcakes, and when I saw Mandala in Gnome, I squeed so hard the people around us looked a little nervous. 

I mean, look at it. It's so beautiful. I need 92388739875876873897856 more cakes. I want to do all of the things with it. 

I settled on starting with the longest scarf in the(my) history of ever, checked the dye lots for the very first time in my life to make sure they were the same, and brought home two cupcakes of my very own. I was SO excited. 

When I took this, I had just discovered that I'd K3, P3ed when I should've P3, K3ed. I had a mini freakout and decided to press on.

I did not check the length of the cakes, the gauge of the yarn, or the weight (and, truth be told, had no idea there were so many different specs for yarn). I had no pattern in mind, though I did have a dozen (or so) pinned on Pinterest. All I knew for sure was that I wanted to step outside of my comfort zone, which wasn't difficult to do because, by that point, I still hadn't even learned how to slip a stitch. (I ended up going with this one.)

I started knitting in 2010. I still say I'm a beginner because I had six projects under my belt (not including the few washcloths I worked up to get an idea of how different patterns work) when I started my rainbow scarf; four scarves and two hats. I'd used different patterns for most of them, including a checkered pattern that was made by alternating between knit and purl, but they were all relatively easy. 

In short, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. 

I was just about halfway finished. It was September 15th.

Every project I have ever finished (she says, as if she didn't just admit that this scarf is her seventh completed project) started by me frogging the whole thing by row ten at least a dozen times. I was ready for that. I was ready for the mistakes I would make. But I was not ready for the panic attacks this project would cause.

Like when I had to reroll the second cake (because I couldn't find the beginning and I wanted the colors to go the opposite direction on the second half), and realized that despite the fact that the cakes were from the same dye lot, the colors weren't the same length in the second cake.

I did it while watching season 3 of Fuller House.

And when I realized that I'd slipped stitches on the wrong side of the pattern and didn't notice for at least five rows. 

This is when I learned to tink properly.  December 4th.

And when I got about two thirds of the way finished, realized that the first of the pockets I wanted to add was going to be wrong side out, and frogged the whole thing. I thought about it for days. Big kept asking me why I wasn't knitting. I kept telling him I was trying to make a decision, crying while I explained the situation. He kept not telling me what he thought so that I'd make the decision myself. And then the decision was made, and I was ripping out row after row, then rewinding feet of tangled yarn, carefully catching knots before they pulled too tight to be untied. 

Two cakes, one styrofoam board that was just kicking around in our attic. November 16th.

I cried pretty hard, that day. I also taught myself how to change which side of the fabric was the "wrong side" without even looking it up online, so I'm calling it a win. Tears totally well spent. 

In fact, every time I screwed up, and had to tink (knit backwards...basically rewinding the knitting process until you reach the mistake and can fix it) or frog (when you take out the knitting needle and "rip it, rip it" out..."rip it" sounds like "ribbit," therefore frogging), I learned something. 

Like this time, when I noticed that the stitches were consistently getting tighter as I knitted, and that the slipped stitches in the beginning were entirely too loose. Annnnd I frogged it again. No tears this time. 

November 29th.

And it felt like I'd finally internalized the life lesson that frogging things that aren't working the way they should is okay. It doesn't matter how much work you've put into it. It doesn't matter how long you've been doing it. It doesn't matter how many people will be disappointed, or won't understand, or won't like you anymore. If frogging is the thing to do, just frog the damn thing. 

And! And...if you don't want to start it again, you don't have to. Or if you want to do it differently, you can. And nobody can make those choices but you. And while they're difficult choices to make, in the end, and in most cases, they're not as big of a deal as you're making them out to be, so just make them and get on with it. 

I know. I know. That seems like a whole lot of significance put on a stupid rainbow scarf that I wasn't making for anybody but myself. But, listen...

I really, really like to do cross stitch. I've always meant to try my hand at needlepoint and embroidery as a natural progression, but I've never gotten around to it. 

And the reason is equally silly. One time, I messed up so much that I got frustrated and decided to frog the whole thing (only I don't think they call it frogging in cross stitch), and start again. But when I did that, I screwed up again. Growing up, things always came easy to me, and cross stitch was one of those things, but here I was screwing it up, and I couldn't handle it. So I quit. How very Aries of me. 

And because I never finished that one, and I felt stupid for mucking it up so bad, I felt like I couldn't possibly do anymore. I mean, how could I even justify spending the money? I'll just muck it up again, and give up again, and it'll be a waste. 

And I feel like that's a metaphor for most things I've stopped doing in my life. Except the ones I stopped doing because I genuinely didn't want to do them anymore, and the ones I stopped doing because they were toxic, obviously. 

So when I didn't cry when I frogged it, and I realized that sometimes frogging is necessary, and it occurred to me how many parts of life that could be applied to, I felt like I'd passed a pretty major milestone. 

And then, suddenly, I was back at the same point. The spot where I'd frogged it and cried. And I got nervous. And stopped knitting. I knit because it soothes me, and here the damn scarf that had once seemed my salvation was giving me another panic attack. How can it be salvation if it causes so much anxiety? 

January 26th, 2018.

I did another big push in February, and stopped again. ARK obsession, lack of motivation, anxiety, and a giant helping of cabin fever. 

But finally, on April 23rd, I bound off the scarf. It was finished. The only thing left to do was weave in the ends, and sew the pockets. 

Which I promptly did. A couple days later, when I felt like I could do it without freaking out. 

When it was finished, I couldn't help but be proud of myself. Over the course of eight months, I wrestled with demons that have plagued me my whole life. The only way out of Hell is through. So I pushed through. And I finished it. And I learned a lot of things along the way. 

Sure, they're things I should have learned a long time ago. And I probably could have learned them in a much more profound way. 

But listen, I have borderline personality disorder and I'm a recovering addict. Emotional growth is not a thing I did a lot of in my youth. I was just mad. All the time. At everyone. For everything. Because mad was easier than sad, or betrayed, or lonely, or degraded, or unwanted. 

Sometimes it takes a rainbow scarf. 

💜