This post’s recommended playlist (here if ya don’t have Spotify):
I was a greedy teen when it came to subcultures. Sure, I wanted to be a badass punk, but I wanted to be a goth just as much. Although, while my love of punk had to do with the music, the clothing, the ethos—my goth obsession had more to do with my desire to find a moody, otherworldly gothic love.
In my mid teens I didn’t know much about goth subculture. I was too young to go to a club, I knew exactly three goth bands (Siouxsie and the Banshees, the Cure, Clan of Xymox), and I was only allowed to go to Hot Topic maybe once a year. And YES, I know Hot Topic isn’t goth, but in the 2000s Hot Topics still had their edgy logo and sold corsets and pleather pants, and that was as close to the dark side as I was going to get.
At the time I also had an excessively wild and dramatic imagination. I hate to admit it, but I think I believed in vampires somewhere into my late teens. In fact, my high school librarian actually bought me a copy of The Vampire Book: Encyclopedia of the Undead after she ran into me dozens of times in the library after school, hunched over the book taking detailed notes. I wanted to know all there was to know about vampires, and deep down I dreamed of one day becoming one (according to my research it was well within my reach).
For the record, if you think a teenager is a little too old to believe in vampires, then you probably grew up somewhere far more exciting than Effort, PA. My parents had moved there from NY, seduced by the massive amount of land their city money could buy. Sure, the move had given us a bigger house and an acre of land, but it also placed us at least a half hour away from civilization. Before my friends and I could drive ourselves to the mall we’d wile away the days watching horror movies, reading Anne Rice novels, and inevitably peering in the forests that surrounded our homes, dreaming of what dark mysteries lied within. I don’t know, the internet barely existed, at the time it made sense.
Add on to all of that a fierce love of Tim Burton—I considered Edward Scissorhands to be the ultimate love story—and you’ve got a girl whose idea of goths was definitely unrealistic, possibly bordering on fantastical.
All I wanted out of life was to find a pallid goth boy who possibly drank blood and definitely considered cemeteries a place of a romance. I’d frequently daydream about this man—tall and thin, stark black hair, with a complexion bordering on unwell—and how we’d spend our days together. We’d lie in the grass of an old, decrepit cemetery, gazing into each other’s eyes as our black velvet cloaks spilled across the grass like puddles of night sky. He would reach one hand to lovingly stroke my cheek, but no words would be exchanged. In my mind, the ultimate love was serious and silent, full of knowing looks and glances.
God bless my poor boyfriend at the time, who had no idea he was being measured against the male lead of the dark romance that played in my mind. My high school boyfriend Jake was an upbeat, charismatic pop punk kid who tried so hard. He took me to cemeteries, gifted me the black crushed velvet cloak of my dreams, and he even dyed his blonde hair black for me. But it was never enough.
I wanted a man who wore an ascot and recited the works of Poe, but my boyfriend wore light-wash Levi’s and quoted Austin Powers. And sure, he took me to the cemetery, but it wasn’t so we could admire tombstones and contemplate our mortality. He just took me there so we could make out. The more time passed, the more I resented my boyfriend for his unwillingness to have darker interests, think deeper thoughts, and just generally be spookier.
I distinctly remember our one year anniversary, the moment it dawned on my boyfriend that nothing he did would ever be enough to please me. To celebrate the occasion I donned a long black dress and my black cloak while I asked him to wear something dark and formal. My vision, I told him, was to celebrate our love dancing under the night sky to “Jupiter Crash” by The Cure. We’d slowly sway under the stars, wordlessly professing our love with our eyes, as we let the lyrics wash over us.
The night turns as I try to explain / Irresistible attraction and orbital plane
"Or maybe it's more like a moth to a flame?"
She brushes my face with her smile / "Forget about stars for a while"
If you’re not familiar with the song (you can give it a listen in the playlist above), my interpretation is that it’s about about a powerful love that ends all too suddenly, much like a shooting star. It’s a beautiful song full of heartbreak and pain, which, in retrospect, makes no sense to swoon to on your one year anniversary.
As usual, my boyfriend did try—oh how he tried. He dressed up as requested, went out in the cold at 10 pm, and he slow danced with me in my parents’ driveway as Robert Smith’s agonized vocals poured through the speakers of my portable stereo. I remember us swaying back and forth awkwardly for some time before he cracked a joke during the song’s quite long musical interlude.
Who knows what he said at the time. Honestly, it was probably pretty funny, but all I recall is my rage that followed. I was in a cape under the moonlight solemnly celebrating our love—why couldn’t he understand that this wasn’t a time for jokes?
I should have told him that I wasn’t just being a moody bitch—that for just 4 minutes and 15 seconds I wanted to forget that I was an awkward high school girl. I wanted to pretend that I was elegant and pale, instead of a clumsy brown girl with acne and frizzy hair. And even though I didn’t really understand the concept of love at the time, I wanted to pretend that I did, and let the idea of it wash over me like it was the most important feeling in the world.
But since I was still over a decade away from learning how to constructively express my emotions, all I could say was “can’t you just stop talking?!”
Jake’s expression hardened. “I’m so tired of this,” he muttered as he pulled away.
As my boyfriend left me in the driveway, the stars circled around me, lamenting my plight. Robert Smith, wherever he was, could sense my pain, and he cried a single tear in my honor. “Why can’t I have a dark, beautiful life?!” I cried to the heavens. The heavens replied by sending a single gust of wind that sent my black cape flowing behind me, making the moment all the more poetic.
I mean, that didn’t really happen but in my mind it did.
My boyfriend was of course 100% right to get mad. It wasn’t fair to try and force Jake, one of the most popular guys in the 10th grade who was known for being a fun, sociable class clown, into becoming the solemn, over-serious goth man I believed I wanted. Even if I had succeeded in changing him, like, what then? Was the plan for us to become miserable brooding goths every moment of every day without a single moment of joy? In my ideal world would we spend each night gazing at the moon as we sipped from pewter chalices filled with each other’s blood? I don’t know. Clearly, at the time I failed to realize that even Robert Smith smiles and cracks jokes from time to time—hell, he probably watches football every Sunday in his sweatpants. No one can be goth all the time.
But at the time I didn’t understand that. I think I truly thought that if I dreamed hard enough, I could bend reality (and people) to my will. Unfortunately, I continued to bully my boyfriend in an effort to make him more goth until we broke up a year later. Our relationship unceremoniously came to an end after he got a handjob from a mutual acquaintance at a party.
Wherever Jake is right now, I wish him well. And I hope whoever he’s with lets him keep his natural hair color.
Did not see that ending coming, but wow... hugs, friend. This is great.