Mar 2014
The first time I took notice of a magazine, I was in elementary school. I could barely distinguish my S's and my R's. I was only a little girl when my mom gave me my first magazine and told me it was her Bible.
They all started the same way- a supermodel here, a ****** washed out athlete there, and a divorce that made the headlines. I thought to myself that this was normal. That hurt was something that happened nonchalantly, that every beautiful person starved themselves for one reason: to fit in. For publicity. For the money and so-called beauty. For love.
I was in middle school when I realized that all those magazines I picked up over the years were nothing but full of skinny, beautiful woman. Page after page of flawless skin, of perfect hair, and hourglass figures. It was the same year that I realized those women didn't eat. That they hurt themselves on the outside, so they could feel beautiful on the inside.
And I thought to myself, "I want to be exactly like them."
It wasn't until high school that I realized I would never be like them. No matter how much I followed the magazine celebrities like a dog, I couldn't do what they did, follow their actions, or say their words.
Women who aren't women are told they don't matter. That if we don't listen to the men in our lives, then we have no purpose. And if we deviate a fraction of an inch from the chosen path, then we get ostracized.
We get makeup thrown into our faces, and pills to make us thin shoved down our throats, and are forced to wear clothes that show skin- but when those clothes get ripped off, it's suddenly our fault for being skimpy.
The year I turned fifteen, I realized I didn’t need to be a certain way to be okay. I didn’t need to pop pills, or shove a finger down the back of my throat, or skip meals and deny it when asked. I could dress how I wanted, whether that be a dress or trousers, was up to me.
I was barely sixteen when I realized that the magazines lied, that they airbrushed real women into dolls, and that the media didn’t care about real people dying as long as that famous child celebrity lost 10 pounds. That they preferred a 10 day marriage over a civil war or a crackdown. That a man dying of a sudden heart attack was more important than a young girl getting run down.
I was a kid when I realized that the people I looked up to were nothing more than plastic and Photoshop.
That I was nothing more than a scratched up record player waiting to be glued together with a bit of cover up and a bottle of mascara.
They all started the same way- a supermodel here, a ****** washed out athlete there, and a divorce that made the headlines. I thought to myself that this was normal. That hurt was something that happened nonchalantly, that every beautiful person starved themselves for one reason: to fit in. For publicity. For the money and so-called beauty. For love.
I was in middle school when I realized that all those magazines I picked up over the years were nothing but full of skinny, beautiful woman. Page after page of flawless skin, of perfect hair, and hourglass figures. It was the same year that I realized those women didn't eat. That they hurt themselves on the outside, so they could feel beautiful on the inside.
And I thought to myself, "I want to be exactly like them."
It wasn't until high school that I realized I would never be like them. No matter how much I followed the magazine celebrities like a dog, I couldn't do what they did, follow their actions, or say their words.
Women who aren't women are told they don't matter. That if we don't listen to the men in our lives, then we have no purpose. And if we deviate a fraction of an inch from the chosen path, then we get ostracized.
We get makeup thrown into our faces, and pills to make us thin shoved down our throats, and are forced to wear clothes that show skin- but when those clothes get ripped off, it's suddenly our fault for being skimpy.
The year I turned fifteen, I realized I didn’t need to be a certain way to be okay. I didn’t need to pop pills, or shove a finger down the back of my throat, or skip meals and deny it when asked. I could dress how I wanted, whether that be a dress or trousers, was up to me.
I was barely sixteen when I realized that the magazines lied, that they airbrushed real women into dolls, and that the media didn’t care about real people dying as long as that famous child celebrity lost 10 pounds. That they preferred a 10 day marriage over a civil war or a crackdown. That a man dying of a sudden heart attack was more important than a young girl getting run down.
I was a kid when I realized that the people I looked up to were nothing more than plastic and Photoshop.
That I was nothing more than a scratched up record player waiting to be glued together with a bit of cover up and a bottle of mascara.
