making a zine, self-doubt, and taking my wardrobe to therapy

some life updates feat. an essay i wrote about my clothes

I.

In the words of Taylor Swift, August slipped away like a bottle of wine. So did September it seems, because somehow we are in autumn. Honestly, I’m pretty happy about this. I’m a creature that likes cold weather, feeling most content when I’m slinking around in Docs, a giant jumper, and a huge fur coat. Summer always fills me with weird anxious energy and the pressure to be constantly busy. This uncomfortable feeling led me to delete my Instagram app multiple times in an attempt to quiet the noise of 700+ people sharing their lives with me in real-time inside my phone. Terry Nguyen perfectly summarises the complicated nature of ‘logging off’ in 2021 in the latest edition of her newsletter, gen yeet. This part particularly resonated with me:

I spent a lot of time this summer reading poetry. It made me realize how much I fear losing touch with the sublime mundanity of reality. The meatspace world is magical. Have you ever laid in a field and marveled at how fast the clouds move? Noticed how the intensity of the sunlight changes as summer wanes? I fear that I’m so accustomed to glancing at my phone that I’m forgetting how to sit alone and drown in the river-flow of my thoughts.

My own version of this realisation came when I realised that I instinctively put on a podcast any time I needed to do some activity with my hands, whether that was cooking, walking, or showering. On a Saturday that consisted of slinking around town, running errands and manically cleaning my apartment, I consumed four individual podcasts, each an hour or more in length. I felt exhausted and slightly grossed out at my inability to simply be alone with my thoughts.

As a person who works in advertising and marketing, it feels as though the iron-strength grip of social media will always have me in an inescapable chokehold. In the summer I read Jenny Odell’s How to Do Nothing, a nuanced investigation of our relationship with technology that made me feel less alone and less weighed down by the heaviness of the metaverse that threatens to further engulf our lives. I’d recommend it to anyone else who has been struggling with the same.

I also spent my summer making something. This served as a welcome distraction from social media-induced FOMO. This project was crafted through 9 pm decaf coffees, long evenings lit through the glow of my laptop, and calls scheduled to fit international timezones. If you follow me on Instagram you’ve hopefully already seen it: it’s my zine, Chisme, and last month I let it grow wings and fly out into the world. I’ve been hankering to work on a side project for a long time, but apart from this newsletter, I have been struggling to find something that feels right. Like all good things, this idea came along when I least expected it, and it made perfect sense to pursue it.

I launched Chisme on a Friday during my lunch break at work and instantly felt so sick with nerves I had to exit out of Instagram and take deep breaths until I was brave enough to go back and check if anyone had liked my post (to my relief, they had). Putting your work out there is always scary, and this was up there with one of the most nerve-wracking things I’ve done. Numerous moments of self-doubt made me question my abilities as a writer, editor or (very self-taught) designer, and I realised I was being hard on myself in a way no one else would. On one particularly worrisome night pre-launch, my housemate Neasa kindly but firmly told me I was stressing myself out about a pre-imposed deadline, one I could easily move and not disappoint anyone except myself. I repeatedly reminded myself that this project was meant to be FUN, and if it ever stopped being fun, I decided, I would stop doing it.

And it has been very fun. Making Chisme felt like emptying out all of the thoughts, fixations, and aesthetic sensibilities that have been floating around in my brain and turning them into something tangible. It’s a zine about feelings, creative passions, and the things that make life sparkly. It’s silly and serious and crude and frivolous and mouthy and perfectly imperfect, and the buzz of making things with lots of brilliant people sets my heart alight. If you’re reading this on desktop, please head over to our site to read Issue 001. Maybe give us a follow on Instagram too, for good luck.

chismezine

A post shared by @chismezine

II.

Note: I wrote this essay for a competition in April, a time when I exclusively wore sweatpants and felt utterly lost in my appearance. Although life has gone a little more back to normal, giving me more opportunities to get dressed for the day, I still feel a long way away from getting back to pre-lockdown me. This is a piece of writing about that confusion. Enjoy!

I can categorise periods of my life by my clothes. As a fourteen-year-old jamming to Paramore I wore ripped skinny jeans and flannels. At sixteen, after discovering 500 Days of Summer, I was an indie kid sporting woolly cardigans over floral dresses. When I moved to Dublin for college, aged eighteen and desperate to be understood, I evolved again. By day, I wore Dr Martens, oversized shirts, and beanies (definitely an attempt to assert to the world that I was gay). By night, I went full drama with velvet dresses, faux fur, glitter around my eyes. Looking back on old photos, my outfits tell me how I was feeling, and most importantly, how I wanted to be seen.

As I reached my twenties, I developed a better sense of my style. I realised that the thrill of shopping vintage was better than any party drug and began scouring eBay and charity shops. I lusted after investment pieces, saving for a year to buy a black Acne Studios sweatshirt, and filling my hands with chunky silver rings. I felt comfortable. I was finally able to look in the mirror and think, I feel fucking good.

Then, lockdown happened. With nowhere to go, my relationship with fashion changed, and I’ve been struggling to repair it since. My clothes and I have grown distant. My wardrobe, once my closest companion, feels like a roommate. We inhabit the same space yet rarely interact, awkwardly tiptoeing around each other. Every time I reach for my black puffer or my beat-up trainers, I avoid the gaze of the other items in shame. Losing the incentive to dress every day, I feel like I’ve lost myself, too.

When a relationship dies - either a romantic one or the one with yourself - you’re told to go to therapy. Facing the issue head-on can squash the elephant in the room and help you move on. It can also remind you to believe in the good times. While I could force a therapist to watch me rifle through my wardrobe on Zoom, I know this is a task I can do alone. I just need to make the first move.

Looking into my wardrobe, the first thing that calls me is my old faithful: Tabitha, my brown fur coat. She’s oversized, feeling like a teddy bear, with fur so soft it has a shine to it. We used to go everywhere together. Her deep pockets gave me a place to bundle my hands during brisk winter mornings walking to lectures. On days where everything felt wrong, I’d cuddle her tight to my chest, burying my cheek in her lapel to blot my tears. When heading out for drinks, it was her I’d trust to keep me cosy, as I talked someone’s ear off in a smoking area on South William Street.

Hanging in the back corner of my wardrobe is the dress I discovered in a vintage store in Berlin: a lilac slip, with black mesh and lace embroidery on top. Together, we shared some of the most perfect nights of my life. We soaked up the evening sun over dinner with my girlfriend, filling up our stomachs with tofu and beer. She was there as I rang in 2020, crammed into my drafty student house with my closest friends, shouting along to the countdown.

My grey wool suit made her debut at my graduation. I decorated her with my robes in the daytime, feeling accomplished and grown-up as I posed for photos. For the after-party, I swapped my shirt for a silver velvet bra in preparation for a long night of dancing. I remember how that night felt, the pang of sadness mixed with anticipation, as I said goodbye to that chapter of my life.

There are many more clothes, of course. There’s my array of mini skirts, the army of blazers, packed drawers full of band tees. When I look at them, my heart hurts. I want to throw them all on, layering one over another until I look insane, and set out on an adventure. But, deep inside, I know this isn’t the end of our lives. It’s a fresh start.

Closing the wardrobe, I feel lighter. I have a newfound fondness for those memories: the neon-dappled nights, the lazy college days that now fill me with nostalgia. At the same time, I feel excited for the places they will take me to next. I wonder how I will feel when I wear them again, what version of myself I’ll be. Will I be braver? More confident? Carefree?

When I imagine it, I get that same fluttery feeling I get when I spot something glorious in a vintage shop, calling my name. At that moment, everything looks utterly full of promise. Life feels brimming with possibility. Shining with hope.