teen goth

I had a teen Goth phase. Given that I’m 29 years old and engaged in confessional blogging, you could probably have guessed that I had a teen Goth phase. It lasted about four years, during which I was depressed and angsty, slightly unpleasant to strangers and authority figures, and constantly plugged into terrible music that I pretended to like more than I did.

I was an unpolished Goth. I was fat. I was sullen rather than sultry. I didn’t have the steady hands to apply eyeliner, so I just smeared it along my lower waterline and nowhere else. I also had some singularly unattractive purple lipstick that I wasn’t very good at applying either. I had fingers full of cheap rings, arms full of cheap bracelets, and a wardrobe full of clothes that didn’t go together. I was naturally the colour of milk that had seen a ghost (a ghost that had seen some milk? I don’t know) and I hid from the sun like it was out to get me personally.

At this point, I haven’t been a Goth for well over ten years. But for some reason, the voice of my teenage Goth self has always refused to go away entirely. If I want to get in touch with her, all I need to do is go into a shop and try on a dress that’s white, or pastel, or ruffly, or covered in bows. As soon as I look in the mirror my fifteen-year-old self is looking back at me.

"You have got to be kidding."
"It’s not that bad."
"You have GOT to be kidding. What even is this thing? Take it off now."
"But I need - "
"OFF. NOW."

And she stays until I take it off. If I try to buy it anyway, she emerges every time I put it on. If I wear excessively pretty or girly clothes, I look like an angry child forced into something her grandmother will find acceptable for a family outing. I’ve long since given up even trying these clothes on, unless I’m trying to demonstrate conclusively to someone why I don’t wear those things.

Teen Goth Jen has made a lot of allowances for the adult body she finds herself in. I can wear bright pink, or orange, or lime green. I can wear flowers in my hair. The other week she even let me buy a jumpsuit. Teen Goth Jen is actually rather pleased about what she’s grown into, and she wants to keep me sweet so that she can use me for wish fulfilment.

A couple of months ago, I went to Camden Market to get the final bits of a fancy dress costume. Teen Goth Jen was thrilled.

"Oh my God, look at that! Look! Can we get those boots?"
"No, we can’t. They’re £300."
"Aww. Oh look, piercings! Can we get a piercing?"
"We don’t want a piercing."
"Well, then, can we get that giant floppy purple hat?"
"No."
"Awww."
[walk along for five minutes] "So can we try that dress on? We don’t have to buy it, I just want to look."
"…fine."

And then we try it on and Teen Goth Jen gets all excited and sometimes she’s excited enough that I buy it anyway, despite having absolutely no occasion to wear it.

The Teen Goth Jen that now lives in my head isn’t very much like my actual fifteen-year-old self. My actual fifteen-year-old self was thoroughly miserable, terrified of everything, and having to deal with things that fifteen-year-olds really shouldn’t have to deal with. Carrying her around with me everywhere would have been well beyond the limits of my strength. Teen Goth Jen, as I know her these days, is very firmly committed to the same aesthetic as my teenage self, but has none of the insecurities or fears I had because that was half a lifetime ago and she can see that none of the things she was worried about actually happened, or that they did happen and we handled them pretty well, all things considered. Instead she celebrates my every success with immature enthusiasm, especially the superficial, petty things that my adult self is embarrassed to take pleasure in. She boosts me, not because she’s trying to help, but because she’s genuinely thrilled that this is the way life turned out. It helps, especially when things get overwhelming. If I have to give up white dresses and ruffles in exchange, I think I'm OK with that.