When I was seven years old, I used to run across the street to my neighbor's house, anticipating the refreshing feeling of jumping into her pool. I would douse my body in sunscreen, making sure to have someone get my back per my mother’s request. I would tear my clothes off of my body and fling them onto a chair with my towel and flip-flops, then leap into the ice-cold pool.
Water would inevitably get up my nose, but I never cared—the discomfort was a small price to pay in exchange for the delight that rushed through my body alongside it. I wrestled in the pool with my best friend who was a year younger, throwing my body around with no regard for how I might be harmed. I developed synchronized swimming routines that relied on backflips underwater because being upside down was nothing but fun. Once the sun set and the water became too cold, my friend and I would chase one another on the pool deck while her mother brought out fresh watermelon and iced drinks for us to enjoy. Despite her warnings that we might slip, I didn’t once think to stop or slow down.
My summer experience at seventeen years old greatly differs from that of my seven-year-old counterpart. Instead of sunscreen, I now cover myself in tanning oil, instead of running around on the pool deck I now lay about on the beachside. Instead of leaping into the water, I hesitantly take steps into the ocean for fear of the temperature. Being upside down now is a chore rather than a luxury. Food no longer comes to me on a poolside platter; I buy it with my debit card, its balance always shrinking, never growing.
This loss of childlike innocence and change in my reality started when I was eleven years old—when I got my first bikini. I distinctly remember the swimsuit, a white bikini covered in blue and red stripes that my then-babysitter gave to me. My sister and I matched and my mom told us we looked completely adorable.
I, though, disagreed with this sentiment. Even at such a young age, I felt self-conscious at the thought of my stomach being exposed. There was always such emphasis placed on my appearance, usually good-natured comments from well-meaning aunts and uncles telling me how wonderful I looked that Christmas and how I’ve only gotten more and more beautiful throughout the years. These innocent comments only fueled the ever-growing fire inside me telling me my worth relied on my body.
The words themselves were never directly said. Despite that, there was a constant reminder in the form of my parents letting me know if I was any less “pretty” I would be dismissed. It was never directed at me, but their poisonous intent seeped into my self-perception. They would continuously shoot out words to random persons on the street with no intention other than to harm and belittle them. One girl was too skinny, another was too fat. One girl was too short, another was too tall. There was no winning the imaginary beauty contest in their minds; no women were free of their judgments, all just circus monkeys there for their entertainment. How was I any different from these women, was I truly an exception, free from the judgments of the world?
Of course, as I grew older, I attempted not to dwell on these potentially debilitating thoughts, instead choosing to dress in clothes inappropriate for the average fourteen-year-old. The response my clothes elicited was nothing abnormal either. I assumed getting catcalled while walking to the market, a block from home, was nothing beyond the norm. And honestly, if my dad was right, these men were just being friendly and I was overreacting. No matter how much I hoped that that was the case, the fear that came from these interactions became a constant in my life; I was perpetually judged and could never escape that judgment.
I dressed older than I was to signal that I knew what I was doing. I obviously didn’t at fourteen years old, and still don’t at seventeen. My clothes, though, were a sense of protection. They gave me the confidence to act like I was someone other than a 5’2 girl with only pink pepper spray to defend herself. Though they were a shield, they also perpetuated my ever-growing anxiety around the fact that I was only valued for my looks.
Once I “accepted” this fact at fourteen years old, I started my journey of becoming one of the performers in my parent's circus. I sought out to become the perfect girl who wouldn’t be too “promiscuous,” a girl who couldn’t be confused with a woman of the night but also a girl who wouldn’t be a “prude.” This line was a fine one to walk, and I was attempting it on a unicycle. Not only performing for others, wanting them to be satisfied, but also for my ever-hungry brain which always asked for more.
Eventually, I realized that this performance was not helping a single soul. Through therapy, I attempted to change my way of thinking. Regardless of this attempt, reprogramming one's brain is not an easy task, especially when the code has been a constant in your head. I no longer have the ability to run around the pool deck. I can no longer rip my clothes off and leap into a pool; I have to be slow and calculating, the circus is ever eager for my performance. The people in the audience; a random man, my parents, and my relatives, are all eagerly awaiting my failure; are awaiting my fall from the tightrope. So now, I sit like a Barbie at the beach, slathered in tanning oil, making the conscious decision to eat after the beach, awaiting praise for my performance.
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Joelle Brandts is a junior in the WAVE pathway who enjoys watching Gilmore Girls and thrifting.
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