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it was hard to throw out that outdated black eyeshadow.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!
