The Wardrobe.
Written on November 21, 2020
I’m going through my clothes. In these years of collecting these pieces of fabric, I have forgotten how many versions of myself have been hanging in this closet. I pull pieces of my past-selves out of the depths of that space, hold them up to the light, and ask myself, “Does this spark joy?”
The answer is almost always no.
It’s funny. I keep thinking that I will find pieces of the people I left behind in these clothes and I haven’t yet. I keep thinking that I’ll see the versions of me that they each molded in these clothes and they’re not there. There is no jacket that carries the weight of the devastated, heartbroken girl who simply cannot move on. There is no scarf that suffocates like a toxic ex-girlfriend. There is no shirt that still smells of the liquor that the girl who cannot control herself favored. All I have found is my true self.
In that pink dress lies the girl who was too afraid to live authentically. She had long hair that flowed down her back and framed her face so well that you wouldn’t even see how lost she was. She practiced femininity to perfection. She prayed for attention from people she did not care for because everyone else seemed to like them for her. She draped herself in flowers and spritzed herself with sweet perfumes. A boy fell in love with that girl. She thought she loved him too.
In that floral jumper lies the girl whose heart was broken. Her hair was short, but well-kept. She was strong. She comforted him through her heartbreak. She carried her head high despite the pain and the grief. She wept in private. She tried to smile in public. The mask broke more and more everyday.
In that black hoodie lies that girl who wanted to disappear. Her hair was short but messy, not having been washed for weeks. She locked herself in her room, leaving only to eat. She seemed to flirt with death at every opportunity she had. Those days she went without eating were the longing stare that happens just before your first kiss.
In that blue crop-top is the girl who wanted to die. Her hair was short. It was wellkept. She planned meticulously. No one would ever know what she did or why she did it. She drank that night into oblivion and hoped to never wake again.
I’ve learned that I will carry every version of myself with me until the day I die. It’s not a bad thing nor is it a good thing, it simply is. The girl in the pink dress taught me gentleness and patience. The girl in the floral jumper taught me strength and humility. The girl in the black hoodie taught me empathy. And the girl in the blue crop-top taught me vulnerability. I value each and every one of them.
I suppose those souls who I left behind are woven into the fabrics of all of those pieces. Perhaps they’re woven into the clothes draping my body right now. I’ve let them go but I loved them; in some ways, I still love them now. But I don’t carry them with me the way I used to.