It used to be that — to some extent — I had always dressed sexily for men. Did I look thin? I wondered. Did I look tall? Young? Sexy?

But in the months after my stroke, from which I suffered short-term memory and decision-making problems, my husband, Adam, literally chose the clothes that went on my body each morning. The first morning after I came home from the hospital, I stared at the clothing in my closet. For a week, I’d made no decisions whatsoever — food came to me on a plate, and I’d worn the same pair of pajamas for days on end. I stared into my closet at all the textures and categories. Blouses. Silk. Dry clean only. Machine washable. Cotton. What could be worn? What was practical? Which colors went together? The decision matrix for an outfit is astounding and sophisticated. Then there are all the intuitive factors: Creativity. Individuality. Identity. Pragmatism. Personality. That first day, I chose what was a particularly abominable combination. I don’t remember what it was — it might have been stripes and dots. Or plaid and stripes. Or a less offensive blue and black. Either way, Adam guffawed. I do remember that. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew these things did not coordinate. I had been trained by society to follow a standard. But that rubric no longer existed. I was exhausted. I knew I needed to not be naked in public. But I could not do it. I couldn’t figure out what patterns were, let alone colors. “Will you pick my clothes out for me?” I asked. Adam stared. “I don’t know how to match anymore.” And so Adam matched my outfits. He dressed me in clothing he had always wanted me to wear, but to which I’d previously objected: clothes he’d bought me that I had relegated to the back of the closet, behind my shifts and boho blouses. Tight V-neck tops. Body-con dresses. I was the living embodiment of “What Guys Want Girls to Wear” articles in women’s magazines. I might have looked "better." But my outfits were no longer my decision. I became what the male gaze wanted to see. I wore low-cut things more often during those months than I had worn during my entire life. And because I was so brain-damaged, I’d forget to eat and became very thin — I attracted more attention than I wanted.