It was as dark as night, hidden within mom’s beige, built-in apartment closet. Black and grey clothes hung here and there, peppering our entire wardrobe collection. Back when I wanted to wear clothes that were as dark as my mood. And it all began in the early 2000s. I was just a teenager when, to mom’s dismay, I began to rebel via wardrobe malfunction and a complete change in color scheme.
Way back when rhinestones, glitter, leopard prints and rainbow tie-dyed everything competed with metal spikes, long, black midi skirts and fishnet tank-tops. I shudder to think about it now.
But that was my way of expressing myself. My way of hinting at those dark, deep thoughts that lead to symptoms of depression and eventually, lead to suicidal tendencies. The types of struggles that can hardly be put into words. Black and grey fit me as comfortably as skin-tight jeans. They just felt good. Up until this point, my life wasn’t so colorful.
But that changed the very moment I began my last semester at university in the spring of 2017. I’ve found no reason to brood over the past and have learned to let go of old grudges. I’ve graduated from college, found a job and have managed to maintain fulfilling relationships with friends and family.
And did I mention family? Yeah, I’ve found that I want to have one of my own. Right now, I’m happy and optimistic. I’m only just starting to find many reasons to live. Words a teenage Diane would’ve have never associated herself with. Or the colorful wardrobe sprinkled with dresses and pastels in pink and blue. With me, what you see is what you get. I’m wearing my heart out.