It was September 1992, and I had just turned twenty years old. I lived in Karlskoga, Sweden, population 30000 people (at the time) and my favorite things to do was to read and listen to music.

Music was my life.

I used to put on a record, turn up the volume to “loud” on my stereo, lie on my back on the floor and stare up at the ceiling, thinking no on had never felt as misunderstood as I (I hadn’t outgrown my teenage angst just yet), but listening to music helped me feel like I belonged.

Made me feel less alone.

So when one of my favorite bands, The Cure, announced they’d come to Sweden on their 1992 tour, me and a bunch of friends bought tickets, months ahead of the concert. In the time leading up to it, we had The Cure themed parties and talked about how awesome it would be. Our expectations were sky high.

We were not disappointed.

September finally arrived and I was about to fulfill one of my dreams. To see The Cure live.

The day before the concert, I dyed my classic Swedish blonde hair black as the night—my mom was not happy—in preparation, and bought a blood red lipstick and black eyeliner (I didn’t use much makeup). And on Friday 25th, the day of the concert, me and my friends crammed into two cars borrowed from our parents and drove the 250 kilometers from Karlskoga to Stockholm.

When we arrived, our first stop was at a McDonalds to change our outfits and get ready. So a bunch of normal-looking kids went into the McD bathrooms and exited some time later, looking like Robert Smith. I had teased my long, black hair into a bird’s nest and sprayed so much hairspray into it to widen the hole in the ozone layer significantly. I had smeared red lipstick around my mouth and put on so much eyeliner, my eyes looked like two black holes in my face. (No, there aren’t pictures. This was luckily before the golden age of social media!)

All of us looked like that. And when we arrived at the venue, The Globe Arena, we weren’t alone.

Those hours that the concert lasted, I was surrounded by people just like me. For a few hours, I wasn’t alone, I wasn’t an outsider or a misfit.

I fit right in.

And when The Cure played my favorite song, Just Like Heaven, I cried happy tears, making my eyeliner run on my cheeks, but I didn’t care.

I was happy.

I belonged.

Not the actual concert I attended, but this video is recorded at the 1992 tour.