I have tried to tie my identity into many physical and mental things, grasping at some semblance of self-understanding that I still have not achieved. One of these things is clothing. Up until high school, I always attended schools that had mandatory uniforms, so exploring who I wanted to be perceived as has been in the hands of my school systems. Yes, I could dress it up with my shoes, my hair, and clothing length that corresponded with the weather, but if clothes are a way I can express myself, where was the expression?
I don’t feel as though I have been allowed to know who I am, to be special in my own mind, to be unique in my own way, but the trap of unoriginality is not easily broken away from. Knowing my style and knowing who I am are synonymous, but remain a level of maturity I have yet to reach, though I turn 17 this year. I feel out of place in my body, an outfit I put on every day, clothes over clothes, self over self. Their meaning, their origin, and their cause are persistently unknown to me.
When I went to high school in person for the time as a sophomore, I was exposed to many unique styles around me, yet that only perpetuated these feelings of confusion and reluctance to truly understand my own identity. Despite the being styles just the same as mine, I couldn't help feeling like something was missing, like I could do better, look better, be better. Instead of facing these internal problems, I opt to ignore them, pushing them off for my future self to handle.
I choose what I wear every night or morning, but the clothes I wear don’t feel like me. They feel like any passing person on the street, any inconspicuous existent that travels through their routinized days, and that is what I do, but that isn’t who I want to choose to be. I wear easily assembled ensembles of T-shirts and jeans, T-shirts and tights, T-shirts and sweatpants, with the occasional sweater or pair of shorts thrown in when the weather changes, but I feel this inkling in the back of my mind that there could be more to my appearance than these plain clothes. This body, its own form of clothing, could feel less foreign and more comfortable.
Or maybe my clothes, my body, are a shield I use to protect myself, keeping me safe from the challenges of life, the hardships of growing up, and the struggles of coming to terms with who I am. Maybe relying on uninspired outfits that blend me in with the crowd is better. Maybe special is scary. Maybe clothes are no shield from self-discovery, but a crutch for self-isolation. Maybe they are an excuse to shift my attention from the anxiety of being judged. Maybe it's all in my head, maybe I'm giving the clothes too much power, too much blame for my own issues.
I could take control from the words, the looks, the emotions that, though I need the support of, shouldn't be the only thing that I rely on. I shouldn't allow them to enmesh me in my own self-doubt, but use them as the foundation for my self-growth. I should grow into myself, be comfortable with my own existence, and face the truth of my own identity.