barbie

I saw Barbie on Sunday, and I had no idea what I was expecting but it wasn’t really that. I was on the second day of my period, the worst, and I left realizing that it almost felt fitting. Not only did I cry, but I got close to an epiphany that I’ve been waiting to have. Maybe I didn’t have a specific single epiphany but it lead me to some introspective self realizations, as most good movies should. It was a completely existential, colorful, raw, wild ride of a film and I left with tears in my eyes and a newfound confusion for my place in the world.

My whole life, I’ve come to realize, has always been relatively centered around men and the male figure and largely in an uncomfortable way. When I was in elementary school, I remember getting stressed about picking a boy dance partner for the end of the year performance. I remember two boys chasing me around the playground, wanting to kiss me and grab at me. I remember being scared. In middle school, I got sexts from boys on MySpace and Facebook chats after school. They’d send me sexy song lyrics and snap my bra straps during lunchtime. My friends older brothers would try to lure me to their bedrooms during sleepovers, my math teacher wanted to me to always stay late after class. In 8th grade I was forced to have my first kiss at the burger joint next to the school. I cried after. In high school, I had many boyfriends and lovers. I would get catcalled while walking to school, on the train, in the gym, and at the grocery store. I started dressing sexier, for men. I started growing my hair down to my lower back and wearing it in braids and long sleek pony tails, emphasizing that I was made for male fantasy. I started letting my bra straps show and wore dark eyeliner. I became sort of mean and elusive and read books like Lolita and the Virgin Suicides. I learned about rock music and press on nails. I bought the sexiest perfumes I could find; scents of vanilla, musk and jasmine. I would fall in love with the senior boys and teachers assistants and write love letters with their names in big hearts in top of my class notes. By the time I graduated high school, all I really learned was how to be the ideal male fantasy. It gave me more power than good grades or an award ever could. I thought I had a cheat code. As I’ve gotten older, it’s gotten better, slightly. I’ve been in loving relationships, I’ve been alone too, I’ve had more male friends and have a better grasp on the male race. But my brain still operates as a seductress. I still mimic the sirens I would read about. I still use the power of touch and asking questions when I talk to men. I still feed their ego. I still feel sad when I sleep alone in my bed. I am still consumed by men.

I don’t have an answer as to how I think it should be. Maybe some of us are just more consumed and enthralled by men than others. Maybe it’s okay. I just wish I could tell my younger self that the upkeep of fitting into standards and fantasies and projections will send you into a spiral of pain, confusion, starvation, enlightenment and self hatred that is so grand and so intense that you will most likely end up as a defeated, barely alive shell of a human.

I’ll always love boys but now I have reminders, like this movie and my past mistakes, to remind me of balance and the beauty of womanhood and self expression and independence.