I Used To Be Goth...And Sometimes I Miss It

Whenever I tell people that I used to be goth, surprise always follows.

“No, reallllly?”

Yes, really, and typically I’m asked to scroll through thousands of photos and find some of my “Goth Som” days, a title given to my former goth self by friends who knew me then, referring to that version of me as if she is a character, a myth, a legend. In reality, I feel her so much closer, I carry her with me.

She was fragile and tough as nails all at once. She was going through some shit. When I think of her, I want to embrace her in a big hug and tell her everything’s going to be okay. When I think of her, I say to myself, Poor Goth Som.

Goth Som emerged shortly after my freshman year of high school. It was my first time in public school, and the freedom to wear what I wanted instead of the plaid uniform I had been forced to wear day after day at my rigid Catholic school both excited and terrified me.

I could die my hair, a thought that was so insane to me at the time (which I eventually did; black, purple, red). In the first few months of high school, I went for a look that would make me blend in. I wore simple clothing, forcing my mother to buy me awful Hollister t-shirts and light distressed denim so that I would look like everybody else.

Wearing them felt nothing like being myself. I didn't wait all these years to express myself to just look like I was basically back in uniform with everyone else all over again.

My transition into Goth Som was slow but steady. I felt teenage angst boiling up inside me like a wildfire. I was angsty, I was angry, I was pissed. I began listening to all the punk bands of the 2000s and dating a guy who was the lead singer in a punk-pop band (they were seriously terrible).

Nothing made me feel more in my zone than attending Warped Tour in my fishnet tights, Doc Martins, and for some reason, black shirts that always seemed to have crosses on them, some upside down, some right side up. I loved how the music made me feel, I loved the energy at these shows, but mostly, I loved how I looked. I felt powerful and in control with my too dark makeup and outfits that raised my mother’s eyebrows. Suddenly, I wasn’t dressing like this just at punk shows, but all of the time.

I liked how people turned their heads to check out my odd outfits in the hallways, even if they were judging me, at least they were noticing me. I started to feel like I kind of scared people off, and I loved it. I think I was rebelling from a lot of things, my Catholic school and all of its principles, my strict father, you know, the usual Catholic school girl gone wild kind of stuff. But also, I think I liked the walls my outfits, and as a result, my persona built around me. Boys were less likely to unsolicitedly talk to me or check me out in the hallways, I liked that people, especially men, were intimidated by me.

My prom dress still hangs in my closet back home, black and skin-tight with long lace sleeves and a mermaid tail hemline. I wore it with merlot lips and way too much eyeliner, all too smokey eyeshadow. While I’m sure I looked like The Corpse Bride, I felt fucking beautiful in that dress, which is all that really mattered.

While my dad was not a huge fan of my goth days, I remember during prom pictures, he told me I looked gorgeous, followed with “So, do you think we’ll get out of this goth stage at some point?” To which I responded, “Maybe someday.”

I phased out of my goth stage once I moved away and started college, feeling more in control than I used to, less angry, and less incentivized to prove that I was indeed a badass.

While now I opt for simple neutrals, when I’m attending a punk show, hitting a dive bar, or just really want to feel myself, I know exactly what to wear.

I’ll slip on my studded Sam Edelman boots, my ripped black denim and a black tank with my lived-in leather jacket. A tamed version of Goth Som. When I got out like that, I’m her again. And I’m bad.