Why I Stopped Wearing My Necklaces
Are you willing to look at yourself in the mirror?
What do you see?
Is it too painful to see yourself as you are?
Or are you afraid that if you look, you’ll have to acknowledge the beauty that stands before you?
I’ve always had a love/hate relationship with mirrors. I can be too focused on my appearance, to the point of standing and criticizing myself, picking apart my flaws when I’m supposed to be choosing an outfit. Yet, I’ve always been very creative and expressive, including in my attire. From a young age, I’ve put considerable effort into my clothing, makeup, hair and accessories.
When I was a pre-teen, I would use this as an antidote to what was happening around me, so that I could distract myself from pain and trauma. Hiding behind a cute outfit was convenient and I always felt better when I ‘looked good.’
However, it’s easy to take a coping skill too far or to rely on it for comfort far beyond its usefulness. In my adult life, I’ve used shopping, curating, agonizing, and creating different looks and personas as a way to disconnect from my troubles and hide my insecurities. Body dysmorphia and hatred has caused me to carefully select clothing that will make me appear thinner or less voluptuous. I’ve spent countless hours taking selfies, mastering the art of the perfect pose to make my stomach appear flatter or legs smaller. I’ve hid behind costumes, cosplaying as a sexier, freer, happier human than the one who was trapping the streets of New York City, hiding my financial troubles, housing insecurity, or heartbreak behind ruffles, piles of necklaces, bright colors, and layers of lace armor.
When I first met my husband, I could tell he was not a fan of my over-the-top aesthetic. He didn’t like how much makeup I wore and how I hid behind my piles of beaded necklaces. He wanted to see me for me; not me with the costumes I wore. It took me a while to realize this didn’t mean that he didn’t appreciate my style or aesthetic, but he realized how my necklaces were this deeper psychic shield for me; they didn’t just represent an aesthetic, but a need to hide and protect. He wanted me to feel safe enough to not need them in the first place.
When I finally let him see and touch my neck, it was a monumental moment in our relationship. It felt so much more intimate then kissing, or even having sex. I had been previously violated by a past lover who strangled my neck and since then have not allowed anyone to touch it since, also making it impossible to access through the piles of beaded necklaces I wore that covered its surface. Trusting someone enough to take them off at all was years in the making. For so long, I slept in the necklaces, showered in them, only removing them to replace them with new designs. Even though they were just plastic jewelry, they felt like they were coated in gold and diamonds. Wearing them allowed me to feel powerful, special, and worthy, in a way that is hard to articulate completely. It was as if they gave me some kind of super power, almost like putting on a mask and becoming someone else. Seeing myself as I was- a vulnerable, lost, neurodivergent, lonely, tough, resourceful but traumatized woman who wasn’t able to meet her full potential- was painful. I was afraid of my powerlessness and my beauty, simultaneously; so I became someone else. By wearing my necklaces, I became someone who was youthful, carefree, fun, rebellious, and lascivious, tricking not only those around me, but most importantly, myself.
I took off my necklaces, as hard as it was. My husband got a special box for me to put them in, so that I could honor their memories and meanings, not having to permanently part with them nor those parts of me. I did it for me, so that I could learn how to be safe, so that I could allow myself to be held, taken care of, and loved.
When I’ve stripped myself of all costumes, personas, and identities late last year, I felt lost. I feared I had broken myself open completely, that I could never escape myself. I worried that I would loathe who I was forever, that this was it and I could never be anyone more. My failures would define my existence, down to my attempts at making blog posts like this, filming YouTube videos ‘no one’ would ever watch, and Instagram posts that were being shadow banned.
What I’ve uncovered scares me, but also moves me. I am just a human, the same as anyone else. I am not special, but I am also made of stardust. It’s a beautiful thing to realize that the person staring back at you in that mirror is as worthy and as valuable as anyone and everyone else.