18.1112 - 0900 A Damp, cold environment
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@25.0422-0041.19 by Atx (Orig.)
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Dear Marla,
They say that a wet, damp, cold environment will likely help you discover the joys of arthritis. It’s almost as if the very air conspires against your joints, seeping into every crevice and making itself at home in your bones.
Somehow James and Lorraine had seemed to have dodged that bullet. James grew up here, so maybe he developed some sort of genetic resistance to it over time. Lorraine, who hails from the sunny Los Angeles area, is a bit of a mystery. Maybe she has some genetic predisposition that shields her from arthritis. Who knows?
I grew up in Thorpton, just an hour's drive inland from here. It was a bit cold and damp at times, but not nearly as much as this place. So I thought I'd be okay when I first arrived at the Hahnestery.
That was almost three years ago, in January of 2016. The cold dampness of this place gets into everything—into your clothes, your skin, and eventually, your bones. It didn't take long for it to start affecting me. My joints began to ache, a constant reminder of the relentless humidity. The longer I stayed, the more the aches intensified. I sought refuge in Tylenol more and more often. By Christmas of that first year, I started wondering if I should keep my job or just go back home to Thorpton, where everything seemed oriented toward an endless cycle of routine.
Right after that Christmas, something unexpected happened. The Hahns discovered me in my rubber gear—my latex catsuit, gloves, and boots—and I "came out" to them about my fascination with it. By mid-year the following year, I was wearing my latex more and more frequently. And strangely enough, my bones seemed to ache less and less.
I have a theory. The reason the aches may have gone away is because of the latex. Latex is quite waterproof, you see. It forms an impermeable barrier against the humidity that permeates this place. When I'm encased in it, the dampness can't seep into my joints and bones as easily. It's like a second skin, protecting me from the elements.
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But there’s more to it than just physical relief. Wearing latex has become something of a spiritual practice for me. There’s an intimacy with the material that transcends mere comfort. When I slip into my catsuit, it feels alive—like it breathes and moves with me. The sensation is both grounding and liberating.
The first time James asked about my experience with rubber, I couldn't quite put it into words. But now, after years of wearing latex almost constantly, I understand it better. It’s a form of self-discovery, a way to connect deeply with myself in a world that often feels cold and indifferent. The latex amplifies every sensation—from the coolness against my skin to the subtle movements within its confines.
I've learned to appreciate the nuances—the way the material stretches and conforms to my body, how it isolates me from the damp air yet makes me feel more present in my own flesh. It’s a paradoxical experience: both isolating and connecting at the same time.
So here I am, three years later, still wearing latex almost every day. My bones are quieter now, and my spirit is stronger. The Hahnestery may be damp and cold, but within this rubber cocoon, I find solace and strength.
Thalia