Two weeks ago I walked into my therapist’s office and immediately apologized for being in sweat pants. He said, “Sarah, this is the third time you have apologized for wearing workout clothes to my office, what’s with that?” I sat dumb founded, “what was with that?” I have been thinking about this for two weeks. I see him again tonight and I am now ready to discuss my connection to fashion and self.
I grew up in Shamokin, PA. The population was nearly 10,000 and I graduated with about 130 kids. It has many charms, however fashion was absolutely not one of them. Mom jeans, stretch pants, and T-shirts are the uniform. I was lucky however, to have a mother who was very aware of fashion, even if it was not accessible, an aunt who would take me to the Philadelphia every year and buy my school clothes, and a father who instilled in me the importance of being unique. All of these factors created the perfect foundation to express myself through clothing. I may not have had fine art skills but I did have leopard tights and outrageous dresses.
I never bought basics, instead I looked for pieces that would make me stand out, help me be seen. It worked and continues to work. I am known for my unique personal style. While, I completely embrace this, it has also created existential anxiety. If the way I dressed was fused with my identity, who was I when I was simply in jeans and a sweatshirt?
I often feel like a polarized person. Because of my work as a counselor at an all boys adventure school, I spend many of my days in the most blasé clothes. While, I don’t seem to mind this at work, as soon as I step into my shop, I feel very uncomfortable. I start the apologizing and explaining game. I tell my employees that I can’t dress fun at school; I tell customers what I do during the day, etc. I apologize to almost everyone. I don’t want them to think the person they are looking at is the real me. I mean the real me would be in vintage skirt with red cowboy boots, and a bright hair flower.
In addition to this behavior, when I am at home, I immediately take off my clothes from the day and put on pajama bottoms and a sweatshirt. I want to be in a cocoon of comfort and safety. Its like stretching for me, I feel relieved, relaxed, and it symbolizes that the there is no imaginary or real eyes looking and/or judging. Its as if I am invisible. Surprisingly, this is comforting.
Clothes have become a costume for me, a way to express myself, but also a way to hide. What am I covering up? What am I trying to communicate? I believe I am attempting to tell the world that I am a unique and deeply complicated individual. When I am wearing something simpler, I could be confused as an average person. This misunderstanding feels unbearable. The most important part of my personal identity is the idea that I am unlike others. The root of this notion may have developed from the attention I received throughout my life from my clothing choices. So, if it’s clothing that makes me unique, than if I don’t have the right clothes on, I am not unique. Shit, that sounds so base and yet eerily resonating.
I remember when I was four and I loved to wear these red shorts with white trim and a white tank top that had red trim. I remember the jean skirt and purple polo I wore on the first day of kindergarten (I was looking classic and smart). I can recall fighting with my mother about navy blue mary janes (they were ugly and childish) and becoming hysterical over her attempts to make me wear brown tights to ballet class. I loved my purple blazer with rhinestone buttons in sixth grade, in seventh grade I wore V-neck sweaters backwards and by the time I was in high school, I was a thrift store junky, always looking for pieces no one else owned or could find. These memories are the fabric of my personal identity development. However, at thirty its time for me to allow the less complicated, toned down, average pieces of myself to have some room too. I think if I give her some space to grow and fuse into my identity, she might end up surprising me.
