A Timeline of My Mental Health Through My Fashion Choices
I wanted to write a piece on my mental health for a few months now, but I find it hard to talk about it even now. Even after the hours of therapy, even after the cocktail of pharmaceutical help, I swallow each morning, even after I have been given an instruction manual on how to ring my mind when the bad thoughts start to soak my brain. Even after all of that support, I still find it so SO difficult to articulate the emotional strain my brain has been put through over the years. How do you explain years of self-hatred settling on your shoulders, how do you even begin to articulate thoughts that you feel have always been the background noise in your head? For years it has been there. I remember a quiet whisper became a never-ending screech forever filling my head. I remember turning the mirrors around, being unable to look at myself for weeks at a time. Not necessarily for vanity sake, see I had a genuine hatred for everything about me, so I couldn’t bear to even look at myself. So, after all these years, how do I talk about an issue that hasn’t even left me yet? I decided to show a timeline of my mental health through my fashion choices because sometimes the clothes I wore will be a better description of my mental state, then one I could ever write. Ready? Me neither.
A velvet grey tracksuit, with little diamonds scattered across the vest top
I remember carelessly running through birthday parties, waiting impatiently for my turn on the bouncy castle. I ate as much princess cake as I could stuff into my little mouth, no voices. Only laughter echoed through the walls of this rented space. Wearing a tracksuit, I wore for every special event, inspired by my love for sporty spice – insisting me and my best friend were going to be the next big girl band. Bliss.
An oversized striped orange and white top matched with baggy blue jeans. Both from the boy’s department
A manic run into the playground, while my mum walked behind smiling at my enthusiasm and laughing as I nearly tripped over my jeans in my excitement. A slight layer of judgment settled across the non-uniform day. Concerned parents questioning if we had enough money for ‘girls’ clothes? Kneeling adults asking, “Wouldn’t you look prettier in a dress?”. But a big toothy smile graced my face as I locked eyes with my best guy friend running towards me, claiming we were ‘twins’ It didn’t matter if my clothes didn’t belong to the girl’s section, as they matched with my best friends. Because what the parents failed to recognize is our t-shirts were a matching set, like us.
But I remember that feeling, of not belonging. I was a girl and I apparently shopped in the wrong department. Even at this age, I felt I was doing something wrong. The concerned and judgmental gazes seemed to follow me from that day onwards.
A bright orange flower dress and a white headband
The sun bounces off my ginger hair, and I readjust the headband as I run towards the fountain where I swear I saw the girls from my year sitting. This game of hide and seek had gone on far too long, the sun had dipped, and my legs hurt from running. They must have got confused. Misunderstood the game. A mistake surely? But as I saw the annoyance pass the girl’s face, when their eyes found mine. You could hear the mumbles of disagreement as I tried to sit with them, not wanting to be associated with the girl with muddy knees. I remember the boys holding a similar feeling. This is the point I realized girls were meant to have crushes on the boys with muddy knees. I remember an undescribed feeling settled in my stomach, as I tried to scrub off the mud as the gaze of the boys lay heavy on me. The seed had been planted in my head.
A fresh school uniform, a rucksack, and a flower headband
Anticipation rattled through my body as I wore the new school logo with pride. Hope-filled my mind at the opportunity for a fresh start. New friends, new classes, and a fresh haircut. The script I had crafted from the lonely summer before was imprinted in my head. An assortment of “Hi, what’s your name?” and attempts of friendship were laid on the tip of my tongue. I had an inch of hope and I promised with every tear shed the night before, it would be better. It didn’t last. As if someone had come and poked me with a needle, a pinprick of fear began to deflate me as I realized my first mistake. Girls wore shoulder bags. Not rucksacks. I was in for a long few years.
A white t-Shirt and a purple quilt cover
The now four-year-old school uniform had been spending their fifth day on the floor. My eyes were constantly glazed over, I wasn’t even quite sure I was alive. Time had collapsed. The wetness on my cheeks had dried and re-dried throughout the days. I stared at my wall. Waiting. Waiting for my body and mind to care enough about myself to get up. Shower. Change. Go to the toilet. Eat. Drink. Something. I felt as if I was in the waiting room at a doctor’s office, never to be seen. The mirror lied to me, so I stopped looking. They showed a girl, but I wasn’t a person anymore. It was an issue. Something to be fixed. I was the girl that didn’t show up to class. The girl whose equations ran away from the book. The sister that made everything about her. The family member that hated showing her face. That once bubbly child had lost her voice and was desperate to feel something. Numb. But tell me why would I eat? To fuel a body I didn’t like, a mind that was designed to torture me? I was willing to starve my body if my mind…just…. stopped.
Long-sleeved black top, jeans, a bent neck, and stitches
Another non-uniform day. Now it was anything to cover myself. Anything to cover all of me. To hide a part of myself, and hope I blend into the background. I didn’t want anyone to see me, so my eyes remained down. I remember my eyes stayed down for a long time, scared to meet anyone’s eyes, scared they would see right through me. My throat became hoarse, as the only time I recall speaking is when the teacher would ask if I was there, muttering a muffled “here”. Picking at the dead skin on my fingers, hoping my averted gaze would be enough to keep everyone away from me.
The threat of an Inpatient wristband
….
Black hooded jumper, leggings, and Vans
Deep Breathe. New year, a new college. Just survive, keep your head down and hood up. Make it till lunch then I can see the two friends that have sat with me since I was four. Head down until lunch. That worked for a few hours. But then I was noticed, “Hey I love your shoes”. I look up and see a girl with violet hair smiling down at me. I mumbled an “Oh…um…thanks”. I then walked off quickly to avoid embarrassing myself. But she was there again in my next class, still showing me that kind smile. After talking for a solid two hours, something inside me flipped. I walked to my bus stop that day and hesitantly took down my hood. I stretched my neck and looked around. I could finally see.
A thrifted oversized top, ripped blue jean, fishnet tights, and pair of black creeper shoes
Swallowing my anti-depressants, I ran out the door, rucksack in my arms. I got a lift with my friend to our college and we spent the journey listening to Post Malone’s new album. We both run to our classes inevitably late, as usual. But I still have two coffees in hand ready for me and my violet haired friend. We talk about the festivals we booked this year, and have our tests handed back to us. A B+ highlighted on my page and I silently thank my dyslexia tutor. I declined the invite by a friend to go shopping after school, knowing I had therapy booked in. My family remains as loving as ever. You see after I lifted my hood, I was finally able to see everyone that cared about me. But I had to lift it off. No one else. It sounds cringe-worthy and like I’m trying to make this sound like a Hollywood ending. But when you spend SO long hating yourself, these moments do feel like a movie to me. And I won’t apologize for feeling happy finally, no matter if it sounds cheesy to anyone else.
Because sometimes all I needed was to have a coffee in hand, the sun shining and knowing no matter where I was, I was loved.