Geyl Wells (she/her? I guess?), is a graduate student of English at Middle Tennessee State University. She was born in the heart of Mississippi, raised (mostly) in the shadows of Arizona’s Superstition Mountains, & lives in the suburbs of Nashville. Connect with her on instagram @ebigeylwells.

pink skechers

geyl wells

The August I was eighteen and freshly in university, my mother took me to a small shoe outlet. There, I found the pair of shoes that both healed a small part of my inner child and gave me my first taste of gender euphoria before I even knew I wasn’t cis.

Let me explain.

Growing up in the early aughts in Dallas, Texas, being diagnosed with autism was the last thing any parent wanted for their child. This was the era of only talking about Asperger’s–– we couldn’t even say autism, but instead used a socially acceptable ASD-adjacent diagnosis coined by a Nazi doctor to justify neurodivergent behavioral patterns. As if that was so much easier to stomach. Because my parents didn’t know common misconceptions about autism were even misconceptions, I was treated like an allistic child: bright, creative, talented. Underneath the mask, a second hidden self was trying to fight her way out. Specifically in primary school, many signs I pointed to me being on the spectrum, but because I was socialized as a girl—and “only boys were autistic”—those signs were almost entirely ignored. For example, my sensory issues with garments impeded my everyday life tremendously.

In fourth grade, I wore a blue polo shirt and khaki shorts every day. Every. Single. Day. When my mother asked me to wear tights or leggings, I would collapse on the floor in tears and violently itch at my skin. No long sleeves, even in winter. I lied about wearing underwear because the seams cut into my bottom. I suffered panic-attack-like meltdowns if the fabric of my socks was not pulled tightly enough around my toes. If they didn’t feel right, I screamed and kicked the back of my mother’s seat on the car ride to school.

I grew up knowing that feminine clothing involved fabrics and textures that hurt my skin: tulle, sequins, lace, elastic. Clothes marketed for girls felt tight, vibrant, and colorful, drawing too much attention to my tall, baby-fat-covered body. Because of this, I opted for more androgynous looks. My hair, too, was often chopped into a short bob, ending above the nape of my neck.

During children’s early development, every act of self-expression, every performance of gender—both chosen and forced upon children—plays a part in who they become later. In my case, fashion never felt like an affordance I was given as a child, but rather, a privilege to be earned. How well I could fake being comfortable in my own body. How well I could hide my hatred for neon colors and open-toed shoes. Not only did my sensory issues play a major part in what I could handle wearing, but my plus-size body and detached relationship to femininity were major factors that I considered each day when I stood before the mirror and wished to be someone different but wasn’t exactly sure why I hated myself so much.

—

In class, church, and on play dates, I grew up feeling alien from other children, watching myself from outside my own body struggling to interact with them. While I was loud and boisterous at home, I sat silent in classrooms, afraid I’d be “found out” long before I even knew what I was hiding. I’d hyper fixate on tasks like reading a book under the desk or grammar lessons to ignore my fellow classmates. Now, I realize that my neurodivergence played a part in my gender dysphoria and that alien feeling in my gut. The strict rules and constructs of gender pushed on us as children in Texas made no sense to me. I wanted to wear comfy “boy” clothes intended for roughhousing. I wanted to play the dad in our make-believe games of House. I wanted to kiss girls on the cheek and protect them.

—

Once I moved to Arizona in fifth grade, I got to wear whatever I wanted, which made my morning routine tenfold more difficult. I had meltdowns when I felt dysphoric, left weeping when outfits I set out the night before looked nothing like I pictured in my head; however, over time, my mother gave me more freedom to choose my own clothes. With this freedom, I learned what fabrics made me feel safe and cozy. I wore comfortable shoes and, oftentimes, baggy clothes to hide my body and the bad posture I acquired from being a tall girl insecure about her height. Rather than the world creating avenues for me to feel beautiful as well as safe, I chose to feel drab in the safety of my cotton and fleece cocoon. Up until this year, I did not even consider the possibility that I was autistic. I thought everyone waged war on their wardrobes, department stores tags, the entire fashion world for that matter, in the same ways I did.

—

Flash forward to 2019, when I walk into the Tennessee shoe store. In college I perpetually felt like a girl cross-dressing as a girl; I wore bright red eyeshadow up to my brows and socks with frills around the ankles (although I eventually got over my sock issue, I still refuse to wear underwear and tight shirt sleeves) forcing myself outside of my comfort zone in order to reinvent myself and, hopefully—finally—fit in.

At the store, I was combing the aisles for something prairie-chic or cottagecore, a pair of Oxfords, something—anything—to go with my long, floor-sweeping skirts. I came across a pair of pink Skechers with embroidered flowers. Their glittery, silver seams and chunky laces made me shriek in excitement. I tried them on at once, and although my toes were hitting the tip of the toe box, I loved them more than any shoe I’d ever set foot in. In fact, their snugness was a perk, as they made my size nine feet feel suddenly shrunken.

Imagining what outfits I could pair them with, I walked up and down the aisles searching for my mom, who had walked off. She laughed when she saw me. She refused to buy them for me on account they were childish and “not me;” however, being the stubborn youngest child I am, I bought them for myself and wore them constantly.

A boy in my religious studies class thought I had them custom-made, which to me, was the highest compliment. My boyfriend’s grandmother has the same pair, and when she visits from New Jersey, I wear them to flatter her. Other than that, they’ve never garnered much attention, which, for so long, was what I thought I wanted. I wanted to be seen as feminine, girl-like. Petite, and young, and fragile. But over the last four years, I’ve come to think of them as a secret I hold with myself. An offering, a promise, a prayer.

Ultimately, gender is a performance, and as a neurodivergent person, I’ve been masking my whole life. At the very least, I owe it to myself to play the role I’ve always wanted to. So, I wear fistfuls of rings and short skirts and knee socks. I grew my hair out, bleached it, chopped it off, and grew it out again. I hold this secret desire for girlhood between the spaces of my rib cage, close to my heart. I bought the pink fucking Skechers. I buy pink everything.

—

Now that I’m an adult with 21 years of gender conditioning under my belt, I yearn to be soft and protected in the ways I often tried to treat other girls. I miss the girlhood I never had access to. Yet, this yearning makes me feel like an imposter in a narrative that should have been mine in the first place. I blame my own brain for gatekeeping girlhood from a body that craved to connect with something larger than itself.

What I know now is that neurodivergent people should not be made to feel like less of ourselves because of our gender presentation, a presentation largely decided by allistic fashion designers who don't take sensory issues into consideration when producing clothes. This failure to recognize our needs often pushes us to wear clothes we may not totally feel ourselves in. This conformity is not our true selves, but rather, a means of survival.