To Anyone Still Here, Greetings

Sometimes you don’t regret all of your teenage years.

I watched Sing Street and I fell back in love with the Cure. From the Cure I refound Bauhaus, Sisters, the Damned. I visited this old blog again. I still have 65 followers. I couldn’t throw out my SOM shirt. I felt something strange when I found old Goth posts or dark blogs on Tumblr. The oddest sensations in my hands after moving Dracula on my bookshelf.

Feeling black lace on my skin and remembering a different time. Accidently skipping to a Cruxshadows song while drawing a velvet lined coffin- No. It was a guitar case. Being asked my favourite animal and answering ‘Bats’ without a note of hesitation.

I’ve seen goths every now and again, and for a second or two I felt something. An old feeling. A memory. In past days I might’ve smiled at them, admiring their outfit as I paraded confidently in my own. So many lacy skirts. So many spiderweb and striped stockings. I never threw them out. Might be useful for Halloween, I told myself. I said the same for that black ballgown in my closet.

I found old cans of extra strength hairspray, back from when my biggest wish was to have hair as big as Dave Vanian’s. Or Siouxie’s. Hell, it was hard to throw out that outdated black eyeshadow. I felt like part of me was being thrown out too. Every piece of clothing, makeup, jewellery I threw out cut me a little inside. I wasn’t Goth anymore, I said. I was gonna wear brown tees and blue jeans and stop celebrating Halloween. I was too old for that. I was a cool 17-year-old. A rocker chick. Not a Goth anymore.

Once in university I gave a presentation on alternative culture. The girls next to me had clearly done some research. Emphasis on some. I hid behind the podium a little as they told the class ‘Goth started from Marilyn Manson and a lot of Goths are depressed.’ The Goth bands they mentioned included Manson, Slipknot and surprisingly, Siouxie and the Banshees. Well. 1 out of 3.

My part was on hipster culture, but I couldn’t help but interject. “Actually, Goth has nothing to do with Manson, and more notable bands include the Cure, Bauhaus and Fields of the Nephilim. And Siouxie of course.”

The professor was surprised, and asked me to continue. I hesitated. I wasn’t a Goth anymore. What gives me the right to talk about it? But hey. I couldn’t leave everyone thinking Goths were a depressed group sporting white makeup and worshipped Manson. I started talking. And everyone listened. I answered their questions, from ‘Wait, so Goths don’t worship Satan?’ to ‘Where did Goth come from?’

It was exhilarating.

At the end the professor looked at me closely. “How do you know all this?” she asked.

I swallowed. “I…used to be Goth.” Saying ‘used to’ made something ache in my chest.

“Why did you stop?” someone asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied. Was it the peer pressure from school? My parents’ apathy? My social anxiety preventing me from wearing my frilly clothes?

“You should go back,” the professor said. “It clearly was important to you.”

I swallowed again. “I guess so.”

Now I know it’s been three years. I’m almost 21, and have as much pop music as colours in my wardrobe. My blacks are plain shirts and jeans usually never worn together. But I don’t think I ever really left. I tried revisiting my ‘Rock chick’ self and it didn’t go anywhere. I didn’t feel the way I did with Goth.

Now due to me growing up and the constraints of work and social life, I don’t think I’ll ever be as flamboyant as I was when I was young. I still love my colours and my trendy Instagram styles. I watch as many dramas and rom coms as I do spooky movies. I never could quite get into strong horror.

But what if I come back? Dig out the band shirts and spiderweb stockings. Get the candelabras and dead roses out of storage and put them back in my room? Add all my old Goth tunes back onto my phone? Maybe I won’t be a Goth, per se. In fact, I definitely won’t. Not in the way I perceived Goth to be. But at least I’ll be happy. I’ll get that part of myself back.

I’ve no doubt that everyone has moved on. It’s been a long time, after all. 2013 was the last time I was here. But if anyone is still here, this is me.

The Babybat may have grown up, and like Susan Pevensie, she’s put away things from her childhood. But hey. Some things you just can’t shake. Maybe I never really left Narnia.

In the words of Cherish-past,

Farewell!