When I was a teenager I totally identified as a goth. And it made sense. I was pale from hiding inside from the California sunshine, favored all-black clothes, and loved writing depressing poetry dripping with blood and tears. But the truth is, as I sit here evaluating all the little quirks and blips on my life timeline that were big lighted signs pointing to the fact that I wasn’t actually quirky at all but was, in fact, screaming for help as I slowly crumbled under the weight of the neurotypical world when I didn’t know I was neurodiverse.

I was born in the latter half of the 70s which means I came up in the 80s. The 80s were a confusing time to be alive. Ignoring all of the real big issues for kids in the 80s like living in constant fear of kidnapping, quicksand, the Bermuda Triangle, unprocessed trauma from watching the Challenger explode live on TV, and the imminent threat that a wooden spoon would come out of nowhere to smack you, there were problems I had to deal with every single day and none of the other kids seemed to have a problem with them AT ALL.

Choice. Options. Decisions.

So many choices to be made and so many options available when you make them. Not for just important stuff. For little stuff. But the little stuff can mean something. You never knew when an innocent jelly bracelet might have a secret meaning because of its color or on which wrist you wear it. Or like… whether you wear it just by itself or folded over with another bracelet. Too many possibilities.

A simple for instance, you’re at a birthday party and all the kids are getting slap bracelets. The mom giving out the bracelets asks each kid what their favorite color is. If she doesn’t have the color they say she says “Pick another” and the negotiating has begun. As a child watching this transpire in front of me, I was filled with fear. What color do I say? What is my favorite color? That was my favorite color yesterday, have I really searched myself and know that to still be true today. What color does she want me to say my favorite color is? What’s the RIGHT ANSWER? I don’t even want the slap bracelet but am I being rude if I don’t take one? She told us all to take one. I’ve had one before I hated the way it felt when it slapped against my wrist and when it curled up it hurt all the way around and then the end just dug into my wrist and I don’t ever want that to happen again. 

Cue a panic attack. 

The 80s were a bright time so this whole favorite color scenario came up a lot. And then there was the business of matching whatever you got in one color with whatever you got in another color. At some point, I just got tired and opted out of the whole favorite color thing. I opted out of the whole color thing. If I was going to get something it was going to be black. If it couldn’t be black I might allow for a dark grey or a deep bloody burgundy. But if you deviate from that you have to start making choices again. What goes with what? Best just to stick with black. Not just clothes mind you. Shoes, accessories, bedding, art, lipstick. Black.

If it didn’t come in black, fix it with black. Black ink. Black paint. Black dye. There was always an option to make it black. So I’ve been in various stages of dressing in black for more than 30 years. Because I didn’t want to make any more decisions.

And I still don’t.

So at 47 I’m still wearing all black. I’ve replaced any bloody burgundy wardrobe staples with pinks and reds for an accent here and there. I’ve started working in other colors with accessories but for me, that is truly next-level thinking. That’s growth. That’s me having fun with it. Decking my arms out with bangles and stringing fun beads to make necklaces that will fall apart but add an amazing pop of color ro distract and soothe me. But all of it still goes with black.

Even if it doesn’t go with black, it does for me.

When I was younger I truly didn’t get that I was trying to make life easier. That I was creating a uniform of sorts. Making it possible for me to get out of bed in the morning. Making it possible to get out of the house if not every day then at least some days. I was already “weird” so it didn’t make much sense for me to try to figure out how to fit in with everyone else. I would just find a way to fit in with myself. I’d dress in all black, call myself a goth, and no one would notice the rest of my peculiarities.

That’s not how it worked. But that is very much what I was telling myself at the time. I was making myself comfortable with being weird. It didn’t occur to me for a very long time, maybe until just now as I’m writing this, that I didn’t need to get comfortable with being weird. I didn’t need to think of myself as weird at all. I’m the only me I’ve ever been. I didn’t need to be okay with being weird. I needed to be okay with being me.

As always, it’s a work in progress. I’m a work in progress. As long as I am I think I’ll keep the all-black wardrobe. But I think it’s time for a more organized closet.