During a recent move for my mother, I stumbled upon an unexpected relic from my past: my childhood friend-turned-adversary, Barbie. Rather than discovering her on a shelf in my childhood room or tucked away in a box in the attic, I uncovered an astonishing 47 (yes, forty-seven) versions of her stuffed into a blue plastic container under my bed. Their limbs were bent in peculiar positions, their hair knotted, and they were all devoid of clothing—exposing their cinched waists, featureless chests, and absent private areas.
Despite the chill of that January day, I couldn’t resist the urge to sort through this collection. My fascination with Barbie began long before I owned one. At just 5 years old, I recognized that Barbie was the essential addition to my toy collection. When I finally received my first doll for my birthday, I was overjoyed. But one doll quickly evolved into two, and before I knew it, I was up to 47—my obsession had taken hold.
By the time I hit twelve, equipped with a training bra and the mindset of a preteen, I began exploring body image—both Barbie’s and my own. I would lie on the floor beside my bed, mimicking her flat stomach, and engage in a game I called “Naked Barbies Around the World,” where I would place a naked Barbie on a spinning globe to decide where she and Ken would connect. At the time, I didn’t fully grasp my actions as I held her slender waist and manipulated her limbs. Looking back, it’s clear I was using her to examine my own self-image.
As Barbie lost her clothes, I began to pile mine on. I gravitated toward oversized shirts and baggy jeans, devoting increasing amounts of time to researching food, diets, and weight loss methods. I started skipping lunches at school, claiming I was “saving money.” Instead of eating, I hoarded food in my backpack, locker, desk, and dresser drawers. I mastered the art of saying I wasn’t hungry, even when I was, and began eating in solitude.
When I started counting calories, I was already entrenched in what professionals would later classify as EDNOS (Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified) and the still-undefined body dysmorphia. It’s important to note that I didn’t dislike food—I adored it. Some of my fondest memories take place in a retro kitchen with swirling linoleum, where I played on the tan and taupe floors while my mother prepared meals I now realize other kids envied: Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, Campbell’s soup, or chicken salad served in a faded Wizard of Oz Thermos. I even remember her baking a strawberry-frosted Barbie cake for my fifth birthday.
Yet, I also found myself sneaking food in that kitchen. I would consume dry Stove Top Stuffing straight from its canister and hide in the pantry, munching on handfuls of dry cereal. I would down packet after packet of instant oatmeal—fruit flavors being my favorite, although maple and brown sugar were acceptable alternatives. I loved food, but in retrospect, my relationship with it was unhealthy.
By 15, I had stopped eating altogether, viewing food as a superfluous indulgence with dreadful consequences—my backside, my stomach, my hips, and my thighs were all expanding. Standing at 5’1″ and weighing between 100 and 120 pounds, I technically fit the criteria for “healthy and normal” as per medical standards, but I felt anything but normal. I didn’t perceive myself as healthy, and I was far from it.
Describing the sensation of your body consuming itself is challenging. Everything hurts: your body, your head, your muscles, your bones. Your stomach grumbles incessantly, attracting the attention of friends and strangers alike. You develop resentment towards those who do eat, feeling anger at their audacity while simultaneously being drawn to the scents of frying food, fast food joints, and freshly baked bread. Food morphs into an obsession, alongside numbers: weight, calories consumed, burned, measurements, and the minutes spent exercising or waiting for meals. Soon, life becomes a series of calculations—how many calories are in an apple, a teaspoon of sugar, or a splash of fat-free milk? How many steps must you take or miles to walk to offset them? At my lowest, I was consuming jars of Gerber baby food and nothing but water and black coffee.
It wouldn’t be fair to place the blame for my body image struggles solely on Barbie; that would be an unfair burden for such a fragile doll. Yet, the moment I received my first Barbie, I was enchanted; she became my world. Our lives intertwined as I prepared for outings, mimicking her every move. Her Dream House, her Dream Car, her aspirational life were all reflections of my desires. But she possessed something I could never have—a flawless, unattainable body. Perhaps that’s why I felt compelled to bury her that cold January day. I needed to bury the myth, the dreams, and my own pursuit of perfection.
So, I collected the remnants: severed limbs, dresses, bathing suits, and naked Barbies, stacking them carefully in a black bag—giving them the most beautiful farewell a hefty garbage sack could provide.
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In summary, my relationship with Barbie was complex; she embodied the ideals of beauty and perfection that haunted my self-image. Sorting through my collection was a symbolic act of confronting the pressures of societal expectations and ultimately laying to rest my relentless pursuit of an unattainable ideal.