For a while I lost my sense of self and dressed in void-core black. Finally I’m finding myself again in a new, colour-filled wardrobe
First my dad died, followed by my gran, the resulting trauma forced me to quit my job, the love of my life left and before I knew it I was an only child who didn’t know who they were any more. All inside 18 months. I didn’t recognise the person who showed up at social gatherings, spoke for me or stared back from the mirror. That vanished person really enjoyed playfully dressing up but the new me only felt comfortable wearing black – an unconscious tonal shift to match life’s darkness.
As a kid I’d often be deep in my puppeteer mum’s dress-up box, and she gave me a small clothing allowance from an early age (which I’m sure she sacrificed her own needs to provide) that gave me autonomy over my image. I was the only boy in my high school sewing class and for a time I wanted to be a tailor. I’m straight but my choice of clothing became a target for homophobes and it was often used as an excuse to inflict violence on me, with varying degrees of success and embarrassment for myself and the perpetrators.
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