A few years back, while assisting my mother with a move, I unexpectedly came across my childhood nemesis: a collection of 47 Barbie dolls crammed into a blue plastic box under my bed. Their limbs were awkwardly positioned, hair in tangles, and they were all undressed—exposing their narrow waists and featureless bodies.
I can’t fully explain why I spent the rest of that chilly January day sifting through this bizarre trove. My fascination with Barbie started long before I even owned one. By age five, I knew I needed her in my toy lineup, and when I finally received my first Barbie for my birthday, I was over the moon. But one doll was just the beginning; my obsession escalated quickly, leading to a collection of 47.
At 12, equipped with a training bra and the thoughts of a preteen, I began to examine bodies—both Barbie’s and my own. I would lie on the carpet, trying to flatten my stomach like hers, and play “Naked Barbies Around the World,” which involved placing my dolls on a globe to choose where they and Ken would engage in their plastic romance. I didn’t grasp it at the time, but I was exploring my own self-image through her.
As Barbie shed her clothes, I started piling mine on—oversized shirts and baggy jeans became my uniform. I became increasingly obsessed with food, diets, and weight loss. I started skipping school lunches to “save money” and hoarding snacks in my backpack, locker, and desk. I mastered the art of declaring I wasn’t hungry, even when my stomach growled, leading me to eat alone.
By the time I began to count calories, I was already knee-deep in what professionals would later categorize as EDNOS (Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified) and an unnamed body dysmorphic disorder. It’s crucial to understand that my feelings toward food were conflicted; I loved food. My fondest memories are of playing with Barbie in a ’70s kitchen while my mother prepared meals that other kids envied—like Kraft Macaroni & Cheese and chicken salad in a Wizard of Oz Thermos. Yet, I also snuck food, eating dry stuffing and cereal hidden in the pantry.
By 15, I had stopped eating altogether, viewing food as an unnecessary indulgence that only brought unwanted weight. Although my height was 5’1″ and my weight fluctuated between 100 and 120 pounds—deemed “healthy” by doctors—I felt anything but normal. My body was in pain, and my mind consumed by numbers: calories in, calories out, and how long I needed to exercise to burn off what I might eat.
At my lowest, I was surviving solely on jars of baby food and black coffee. It would be unfair to blame Barbie for my struggles with body image; that’s too much to place on her fragile plastic shoulders. Yet, Barbie became my world. As I prepared to leave the house, I was mirroring her, with her Dream House and perfectly curated life—something I viewed as unattainable, a perfect body I could never achieve. That day in January, I gathered up all my Barbies, their assorted parts and outfits, and gave them a proper farewell, whispering a silent goodbye to the myth of perfection they represented.
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In summary, my journey through childhood obsession, body image struggles, and a tumultuous relationship with food showcases the complexities of self-acceptance and the impact of societal standards on personal well-being.
Keyphrase: slimmest plus-size girl
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