It would probably take a psychologist to speak of the relationship between one’s state of mind and one’s clothing style with any degree of authority. So, at the outset, here’s the disclaimer: this text isn’t academic in any sense of the word; it’s a personal narrative about the journey, from the time I was a teenager, to finally being able to choose clothes based on my own preferences.
It’s a sea-change from the time I first became especially conscious of clothes. At 15, I loved dressing up, and wore everything loud and weird you’d expect a teenager to wear, except while playing at being grown-up; I had beautiful silk blouses, pencil skirts and 80s-style high heels (all hand-me-downs from my mum) for those times.
By 17, I was playing at being grown-up all the time — and, no, that wasn’t voluntary, but it’s another story. Unfortunately, or possibly not, my version of living life involved following an array of dubious conclusions drawn from scripture which dealt with everything, including what I wore: the restrictions regarding adorning oneself with jewellery, the prohibition relating to revealing skin, the mandate to practice “modesty” which — being 17, I suppose — I failed to differentiate from “shame”.
Two years later, by 19, I lived life in long sleeves, Chinese collars, turtlenecks, and long flowing skirts, which had earlier caused a cousin to comment that she thought I should have been born in Jane Austen’s time —my favourite author then. The clothes, by then, had little to do with playing at being an adult: I was one, and neither did they have much to do with religion: I stopped believing that God would judge me on the basis of what I wore, or that He’d stipulated what I should wear. The shapeless, flowing garments were, I now suspect, an attempt to shield myself from the world at large.
And over the course of the next ten years, that’s exactly what I did: shield myself using clothes. Make myself invisible. Hide bruises, when required. And be inconspicuous. Or at least that’s what I tried to do. That isn’t the way it always worked out: intertwined with wanting to hide, was an extremely intense lack of interest in what I wore, which made me stand out, in a way. The clothes were clean, always, and they were also the same, always. I spent years in black. Years too, wearing out a minimal number of sets of clothes, which I’d wash and wear, as predictably as clock work.
I wasn’t interested in spending the time to dress up for other people — I believed, and still do believe, come to think of it, that people who judge you by your attire really aren’t be the kind of people you should be around. And I wasn’t interested in spending time dressing up for myself — on my list of priorities, dolling up didn’t rate especially highly, or so I told myself. While that certainly wasn’t untrue, it wasn’t the whole story either, I’m certain. Looking back, there’s very little doubt in my mind that not trying to dress up had to do with a lack of self-esteem, having no sense of self-worth, about finding it difficult to “measure up” , about never really feeling as though I was “good enough”.
It’s only now, when I’m close to entering my 30s, that I feel more confident about myself, that I have only the last vestiges of shame associated with having the body that I have, and that I feel comfortable in my own skin. I still don’t care, most of the time. I still essentially believe that dolling up is a complete waste of time and energy. But I do know that I can, if I want to. And I do, sometimes.
I don’t choose clothes based on religious precepts or shame — or based on “practical” requirements like the desire to cover bruises. I wear exactly what I want to wear — and, no, that doesn’t involve wearing anything that stereotypically sexy, ever. I find that that’s not what I want, which is the crux of the matter for me: clothes are now beginning to become about what I want. They’re not an escape mechanism, neither are they prescribed by external factors. I get to choose, and I’m comfortable enough to say, “Fuck off,” when confronted with what I don’t want.
It’s a sea-change from the time I first became especially conscious of clothes. At 15, I loved dressing up, and wore everything loud and weird you’d expect a teenager to wear, except while playing at being grown-up; I had beautiful silk blouses, pencil skirts and 80s-style high heels (all hand-me-downs from my mum) for those times.
By 17, I was playing at being grown-up all the time — and, no, that wasn’t voluntary, but it’s another story. Unfortunately, or possibly not, my version of living life involved following an array of dubious conclusions drawn from scripture which dealt with everything, including what I wore: the restrictions regarding adorning oneself with jewellery, the prohibition relating to revealing skin, the mandate to practice “modesty” which — being 17, I suppose — I failed to differentiate from “shame”.
Two years later, by 19, I lived life in long sleeves, Chinese collars, turtlenecks, and long flowing skirts, which had earlier caused a cousin to comment that she thought I should have been born in Jane Austen’s time —my favourite author then. The clothes, by then, had little to do with playing at being an adult: I was one, and neither did they have much to do with religion: I stopped believing that God would judge me on the basis of what I wore, or that He’d stipulated what I should wear. The shapeless, flowing garments were, I now suspect, an attempt to shield myself from the world at large.
And over the course of the next ten years, that’s exactly what I did: shield myself using clothes. Make myself invisible. Hide bruises, when required. And be inconspicuous. Or at least that’s what I tried to do. That isn’t the way it always worked out: intertwined with wanting to hide, was an extremely intense lack of interest in what I wore, which made me stand out, in a way. The clothes were clean, always, and they were also the same, always. I spent years in black. Years too, wearing out a minimal number of sets of clothes, which I’d wash and wear, as predictably as clock work.
I wasn’t interested in spending the time to dress up for other people — I believed, and still do believe, come to think of it, that people who judge you by your attire really aren’t be the kind of people you should be around. And I wasn’t interested in spending time dressing up for myself — on my list of priorities, dolling up didn’t rate especially highly, or so I told myself. While that certainly wasn’t untrue, it wasn’t the whole story either, I’m certain. Looking back, there’s very little doubt in my mind that not trying to dress up had to do with a lack of self-esteem, having no sense of self-worth, about finding it difficult to “measure up” , about never really feeling as though I was “good enough”.
It’s only now, when I’m close to entering my 30s, that I feel more confident about myself, that I have only the last vestiges of shame associated with having the body that I have, and that I feel comfortable in my own skin. I still don’t care, most of the time. I still essentially believe that dolling up is a complete waste of time and energy. But I do know that I can, if I want to. And I do, sometimes.
I don’t choose clothes based on religious precepts or shame — or based on “practical” requirements like the desire to cover bruises. I wear exactly what I want to wear — and, no, that doesn’t involve wearing anything that stereotypically sexy, ever. I find that that’s not what I want, which is the crux of the matter for me: clothes are now beginning to become about what I want. They’re not an escape mechanism, neither are they prescribed by external factors. I get to choose, and I’m comfortable enough to say, “Fuck off,” when confronted with what I don’t want.
