So, back a couple of months ago, I decided to start sharing some sort of loosely chronological autobiography, as it relates to my mental state today. It's been awhile since I've felt like adding another installment, but a somewhat unexpected and certainly welcome event today has stirred my writing juices. So, without further ado for those with so much patience as to endure my particularly self-directed musings, here is the second installment of I don't know how many. Maybe the second of two? Who knows? One of my many hopes, in addition of course to gaining some clarity for myself, is that some part of this will make sense to someone else. Note: Photo 1 is of me at 7 years old, just before I cut all my hair off. Photo 2 is of me at around 16, a couple years before I'd grow it out again.
Part II: Constructing Artificial Walls
Growing out my hair was one of the most difficult things I've ever done. That seemed a positively ridiculous sentence to write - after all, it's not as if I really had to DO anything. Nature does a pretty good job of that on its own. The absence of bi-monthly haircuts and buzzers on my neck, however, signaled a sea change in the way I had lived my life over the previous 10 years. And at that point, 10 years made up more than half of my experience as a human being. On top of my own knowledge of the change on the horizon, I was dealing with the fact that it was wildly visible to everyone else. I couldn't hide the fact that I was trying to fit in a little better - and as important as it is to all of us to find a way to fit in, it's equally as embarrassing to look like we're trying. Fitting in with seemingly zero effort is the gold standard. In any case, I remember thinking how everyone, including my parents, could watch this all go down. I was suddenly openly vulnerable, and worse, clearly admitting that there was something about me that needed changing. I also looked terrible for awhile in the interim. Today, I cringe at the photos from that summer and the beginning of my sophomore year in college. No matter how you cut it (pun intended...!), half-grown-out hair is just unattractive.
Once my hair had grown out to a reasonable and socially acceptable length, I began to feel some semblance of relief and a slight surge in confidence. I still had to stop and think upon entering a public bathroom, and several times in the beginning, I was surprised when no one took special note of me. Using public restrooms in peace was a newly acquired right that had the tinge of finally being allowed to drive or vote or eat a cookie without asking first. It was absurd, really, but that's how society rolls. Still, I struggled. My transformation had of course been obvious to everyone, and I endured countless comments to the tune of , "Oh! You grew out your hair!" These were all well-intentioned, but I quickly tired of them. They became a source of embarrassment as they pinpointed my now normal haircut as being out of the ordinary for me while also highlighting the deviance of my previous look. All I wanted was to walk into a room...any room...without being noticed.
So while my hair had grown out, and the surprised comments slowly waned, my wardrobe remained static for awhile. For my entire life, I'd been comfortable in soccer shorts, t-shirts, and baggy jeans. The most pressing problems solved for the time being, I was in no hurry to complete the transformation. I felt like it would truly mean I was selling out. I finally was persuaded to buy a few things to go "out" in, as I'd begun to discover a social life in college thanks to the confidence gained from my hair episode. I bought a dress or two to wear to special occasions, and I couldn't help but think I looked sort of good when I wore them. My friends, shocked when I would show up dressed up, would often compliment me as well. That attention was difficult to deal with, but at least it was positive reinforcement.
One of my many clothing hang-ups during my childhood had been the knowledge that I would just look sort of ridiculous in girls' clothes. Crazy as it sounds, for a time I would have looked like a boy in girls' clothing. Try that on for messing with a little girl's head. In any case, my feminine wardrobe consisted of a handful of items that I wore to bars or banquets. On a day-to-day basis, I wore basketball shorts and t-shirts right up through my senior year in college and beyond. I now cringe at THOSE photos, because by then, I'd begun to look pretty ridiculous in baggy shorts and shirts. The problem was, I didn't really know what to buy or where girls my age bought clothes, and I was certainly far too embarrassed to ask anyone by this point. Plus, a new wardrobe would cost a lot of money, and I felt bad asking my parents to foot the bill for what I thought to be such an insignificant thing. I was still of the practice of sifting through people based on how they treated my outward appearance and I wasn't quite ready to figure all of that out some other way.
Things truly began to change in the summer of 2008, about a year after I'd suddenly and tragically lost my mom. For a variety of reasons, I was ready to begin to finish what I'd started. Unfortunately, I'd lost my opportunity for motherly clothing consultation - I'd be going this alone. Sifting through the array of unfamiliar clothing items on the women's side of stores, I began to realize another reason why I'd kept my distance and stuck to men's clothes - women's clothes were infinitely more complicated. I had to adjust to new sizing and then seeing a completely new me in the dressing room mirror. While I've succeeded in some areas at this point, it's a year and a half later, and I still don't know what to wear out on my feet on a snowy night in Boston. I still haven't come close to perfecting the art of "layering". I still can't be bothered to carry a purse on my shoulder (why, exactly, am I expected to carry something everywhere I go?) I've been heckled many times by my friends about my "casual" style. And while it's true that I've always been a pretty casual person, the heart of the matter is that casual is about as far as I've gotten in navigating the jungle of women's clothing. For those people to whom that sounds silly, just imagine suddenly switching to the other side of the clothing store - would YOU have any idea what to buy? The paucity of nicer clothes in my closet is not for lack of effort or desire.
As with my hair, my semblance of a new wardrobe has been a blessing and a curse. My confidence has again taken a positive leap, but I become severely frustrated with all the attention I get when I do try something new. If I look particularly good, it must always "mean" something, and I've become heavily self-conscious about what I choose to wear in public and what image that projects. I still have no desire to go to a bar and be noticed for my clothes or what they may or may not reveal. So, as my title alludes to, I've learned how to fashion artificial barriers between myself and others in the absence of physical ones. The last several close relationships I've formed with people have begun as love-hate heckling battles. Eventually, I give in and let these people know how much I really do care about them - in a birthday card or during a particularly rough patch - but not before I've tested them over and over and over again. Some people, quite understandably, are just not up for the months of feigned hostility.
Those who truly know me - who either met me before everything changed or who have endured my subconscious "test" - know that I'm about as soft as they come. I'm faaaaar from perfect, but without trying to sound full of myself, the fact is that 99 times out of a hundred, I'll put my friends first. I'll quite literally do almost anything for them. With those people, I enjoy some pretty awesome relationships. They're the people who keep me alive and remind me constantly of who I am. The problem is that very few people ever get to see that side of me. Meet me in a bar or at a party, and I'll be as standoffish as they come. I've been told that I quite literally look "stiff" in such situations, and I wouldn't be surprised. You have to be willing to give me multiple chances to get to the good stuff, and that's just not fair - for me or for anyone else. But that seems to be the aftershock of all the mental mess with which I struggled growing up - and you'll never hear that story in person until I let you into my life (or until you read my blog). I'm hoping that maybe, in putting all of this into writing, I'm learning to open myself up a bit more to people at the outset, as some of my current and amazing friends have suggested I do. The reward is certainly worth it in the end, but the mental block is still hard to budge. It turns out that hair and clothes were only the beginning.
