She looks pretty pretty

CW: body dysmorphia, eating disorders, sexual language

i.

“You look pretty.”

You blush, twirling around in your skirt that trails the floor, watching as it billows around your legs. You feel like a princess. Your hair is in a braid across your head and butterfly clips catch the light as they spill colour across the room. You ask your parents to take a picture of you, because you feel pretty. You are pretty. They told you that you are.

Your aunt walks into the room. She smiles.

“You look lovely.”

You ask your mum if you can borrow her lipstick, because that’s what pretty girls do: they wear makeup and high heels. Their faces are supposed to look artificial; they’re meant to be taller than you are now.

Your mum just laughs.

ii.

When you’re older, strange people tell you that they love your eyes. They reach for your chin, tilting it up so that they catch the sun, gasping as they turn from green to gold.

“They’re gorgeous!”

You don’t flinch away from their touch. They’re complimenting you, aren’t they? You should be happy. You should be proud.

They’ve never seen a person of colour with light eyes before. Strangers ask to take pictures of them. Your mum declines. You’re confused, because you’d love for them to photograph them. You love the attention. Your eyes are beautiful. People think you’re beautiful. Haven’t you been told to value that beauty?

iii.

“No offence, but it kind of looks like you have boobs already.”

You shrug, feigning a laugh, drawing your jacket closer around your chest. A group of girls stand around, their eyes crawling up your body, up the sides of your hips and the curve of your chest, scrutinising you like your body belongs to them.

You used to be pretty. The attention was addictive. You value that beauty, value that currency that gives you worth in the eyes of others. It’s a drug. You need compliments, you need affirmation, you need people to tell you that you’re pleasing to look at.

They laugh. Your hands shake, your stomach twists.

You ask your mum for a bra.

You’re only nine years old.

iv.

You flash a smile at the boy who walks into class, and he grins back. You barely care about him, but your friend told you that he likes you. You like the attention. You like to feel wanted.

You need to feel wanted. Even if you don’t want someone yourself.

v.

“You’re so tall for a girl. You’ll never find a husband.”

You hunch your shoulders, let out a self-conscious laugh. Tuck your hair behind your ears. Hide your too-big feet and your gangly arms and make yourself small.

No one likes a big girl. No one likes a girl who takes up space.

And you need to be liked. If not for your personality, for your body. For the thing that has given you power, that catches everyone’s eye, that people care about far more than your heart or your mind.

You start to drink coffee. It’s bad for your anxiety. But it stunts growth, doesn’t it?

vi.

Your body is growing faster than your mind can keep up. Your bra size is bigger, you don’t fit into your jeans, stretch marks snake their way across your thighs and stomach. You’re supposed to look good by now. You’re supposed to have big boobs and a big ass, but your waist isn’t cinched and your thighs still touch and your face is scarred from acne.

No one tells you that you look pretty anymore. No one but your parents, and honestly, what does it mean coming from them?

“She looks pretty pretty,” you overhear. “I’d smash that.”

Boys in your class look at a girl on their phone. There are ab lines down her stomach, pencil thighs, and breasts that don’t protrude obscenely in her clothes. Her hips curve, but not so much that they bulge. Her face is slim, her skin clear.

You look down at your own body. Maybe you should make some changes.

vii.

Your friend tells you that someone from the class above you thinks you look hot. You hide a smile, feign horror, pretend to be sickened by the way that your body is objectified and sexualised and treated like it belongs to someone else.

When you’re alone, you thrill at the idea. Your body has never belonged to you. Why should it start to now? Why shouldn’t you take pride, excitement in the idea that someone wants it? That you’re noticed by other people?

viii.

“You’ve lost so much weight!”

Your body is a battleground. It craves bread, but you don’t eat carbs. You run, faster than you should be, taking pleasure in the way your calves burn painfully and your lungs gasp for air. 50 calories. 70 calories. 150 calories. You dance, but your body gives out after ten minutes because you haven’t eaten since breakfast. And breakfast was half an apple.

You fake a smile, your post-orthodontic teeth flashing a perfect white beam. You’ve perfected your smile by now: subtle, bashful, pretty. The kind that makes men swoon and women wish they had your looks. The kind that makes you seem happy, but not so sure of yourself that you’re a threat to the men around you.

Inside, your body starts to crumble. But you’re finally supposed to be happy.

Aren’t you?

ix.

You’re told that your worth is tied to your body from the time you’re born. But if you take pride in your body, you’re a bitch. If you use your body, you’re a whore. You should be sexually appealing without looking like you want to have sex. You should have a big ass and big boobs but a small stomach and petite frame. You should have a modest smile and an elegant laugh and slim legs that you show off when you wear clothes are revealing enough to tease men but not so much that they’re tempted.

So you cut yourself into pieces to make yourself wanted. You shatter, rebuilding yourself into a mirrorball: shining brightly, the centre of the room, but made of broken glass that can no longer be salvaged. Forever an arms’ length away from what’s important.

But you’re the centre of everyone’s attention.

You’re finally wanted.

And that’s all that you ever needed. Wasn’t it?