Being an Object Instead of Being a Girl

I was one of the lucky ones to develop large breasts at a young age. I hope you read that lucky sarcastically because it was a miserable experience. If I came into my body later in life I would have less to complain about. I was still just a kid at the time of this major development. But to most, I was seen as an object instead of being a girl.

I was a quiet kid growing up, more of an observer than a participant in life. I never understood people’s ability to talk so much. I always felt more comfortable with writing my thoughts than saying them. I sometimes look back and think I was mute for most of my school years. Operating through my life from a distance. Mastering the art of dissociating young to feel separate from the strange world around me. 

On my first day of school, freshman year, a cute boy with brown hair checked me out. I was wearing a tank top and my friend pointed out he was staring. I didn’t get why it was such a big deal as she was so excited for me. It wasn’t common for boys to pay me much attention before so I took in her reaction like a sponge. Then the next time it happened I joined her in squealing with excitement.

I wasn’t a boy-crazy child. Spent most of middle school making YouTube videos and writing corny cover songs. Didn’t have my first kiss till after freshman year. Even as a pre-teen, I never understood my peer’s obsession with Justin Bieber or One Direction. My first celebrity obsessions were Miley Cyrus and Demi Lovato. Boys were always an afterthought for me, until fourteen when it was programmed in my brain that their attention was of high value. 

Before I continue, out of paranoia I must preface something. The way I will talk about myself as a teen is from the eyes of my life at the time. I am doing this disclaimer because an old classmate didn’t understand that. Back during college critiques, in a fiction class, I shared a similar story I am sharing now. I received an insane critique letter from a girl who did not understand the point of my story. It accused me of being predatory because I focused in on the characters body (based on me) who was a minor. My professor knew that the story was from a young girl’s perspective and apologized profusely after I shared the letter with her. But just in case that thought crosses your mind, reader, I want to put this in. I write from my experiences, I am reliving my truth. The rest of this personal essay might make you uncomfortable to read but maybe it should, because I was uncomfortable. It should go without saying I don’t think minors should be sexualized. But they are, and I was one of them. 

I played up the attention as a high school girl the most because I was encouraged to. I look at it as they gave me a part to play and I did my best acting.

Girls around me sharing comments of envy saying things like:

“I would show off my boobs way more if they looked like that”

“Can you share some boobs with the rest of us?”

“I would do anything to have your body.”

The stupidest thing my body caused was a big old Twitter fight. It was very juvenile, and very not feminist of me to be a part of shaming anyone's body. It became a way bigger deal than it should have been. I am not going to go into detail because I am ashamed to have ever been a part of that, all bodies are lovely. I just constantly felt defensive over mine, especially with other girls. So when I was called out, I lashed out.

It was so confusing to me because on one end I was cheered on by girls to keep showing off my body. On the other end, I was called a slut and glared at across the cafeteria. 

After the Twitter fight was overhyped, things got really bad. The Snapchats daily from boys I haven’t met asking to see my body, and messages on every social media app asking what size my bra is. Random tweets from older boys talking about my body. It was relentless, and constant that my chest was all anyone cared about. I tried sometimes to use social media to talk more deeply about myself. I shared long captions as a desperate way to let others know more about me. But the posts with my body exposed always got the most likes. And getting likes was of higher priority back then.

At fifteen I was reading on ask.fm when an older senior boy called me Butter Face. I was very naive and I didn’t know what that meant. If you don’t know, it means you have a hot body “but her face” isn’t. This comment rang in my head as I stared at my reflection for years. God, I wish I could go back and tell that girl that she was beautiful. It’s kind of ironic how all the cyberbullying campaigns were rampant during my 2012-2016 high school year. Meanwhile, I used to just skip those assemblies but in reality, I was personally victimized by cyberbullying. I wouldn't say I like the word bullying. If people called it something else we would take it more seriously. Anyway, the point is my biggest insecurity was out there on the internet for others to see. That my face isn’t attractive, only my body is.

Sophomore year I was also talking to a twenty-year-old. Forbidden by my parents but I didn’t care. They just didn’t get our connection. The guy was also an outsider, I was told I was his first kiss. The best part about him was he lived close by and that he had no supervision at his house. Oh and also he would do my math homework for me. He was so good at math, had a photographic memory, and gave me freebies. So in my head, it was a win-win. I luckily was rarely alone with him because he had so many people coming and going from his basement. We finally stopped talking after my dad threatened him with legal action.

Sure, I liked the attention, in a way that I didn’t understand how getting attention could be a bad thing. I wasn’t having my cleavage out for myself. I wasn’t doing hardly anything for myself. It wasn’t until later in college that I began to understand that I must not let others’ fantasies of me define me.

"If I didn't define myself for myself, I would be crunched into other people's fantasies for me and eaten alive."- Audre Lorde

At sixteen, my first job in high school was at a restaurant. A male server in his 20s nicknamed me jailbait. Another word I had to look up, means that you're very good looking but since you’re a minor you are baiting men to go to jail. This term is disgusting, but I felt bad. I don’t want to be jailbait, I don’t know what I’m doing to bait them. The truth is that I wasn’t doing anything besides existing. I wore a uniform at work, a red collared shirt and flare jeans. There was nothing about my outfit besides the body inside of it that made me bait.

At this job, one night, I was also asked to be in a threesome by a married pair of customers. The husband called the restaurant that I was a host at. He said they were just in and told me where they sat. I remembered them immediately, they were a young Mormon-looking couple. You know the type, definitely not the type you think would call and ask to be in a threesome. He went on and talked about how attractive I was and that when I bent over they noticed my lace thong. It was horrible, my face flushed and I told them I had a boyfriend and hung up. I ran to the bathroom and cried and vowed to always wear a belt from then on. I hoped things would be different at work but no, I wasn’t safe from objectification anywhere.

I was also an anomaly in my family which made me feel like more of a freak. I had no one to relate to what I was going through. All the women in my family just looked at me in awe. They said I should be happy I blossomed so much. I know they meant well, most people mean well. Plus, I kept most of the bad parts of high school to myself.

Around my junior year after my first time being sexually assaulted, I started mostly wearing sweatpants to school. I stopped trying to look good all together. Never wore makeup or did my hair. I felt like I had to hide my body, it just wasn’t safe in the eyes of anyone. I thought I needed to do a better job of protecting myself. It worked somewhat, but as many of us women know, it doesn’t matter what you wear.

In the summer when I did wear shorts I would get dress-coded, constantly. My principal, a woman, was the one to dress code me the most. She tried to reason with me one time saying we “filled out” women have to be aware of “how we can be distracting to teachers and classmates.” One time she told me to change but I didn’t have a change of clothes like usual, so I got in-school suspension. My body constantly made me feel like I was doing something wrong. How come the smaller girls could wear shorts, shorter than me? I knew it wasn’t fair.

Even my first and longest relationship was driven by desire. I learned what love felt like through being touched. Learned what intimacy meant through a boy who couldn’t get enough of me. I thought my body belonged to him for a long time (six years) until I realized my body was only mine.

I prayed that my body would have gone to someone else who would appreciate it more. Everyone else seemed to want to see me naked but I didn’t get the big deal.

I was raised in the height of white-washed feminism. You know the one where we only “uplifted” each other by just saying how attractive we are. Women aren’t to blame - the media, the advertisements, the makeup industry, and the patriarchy are. With the rampant influencer age we live in now, this still exists. Being white and conventionally attractive gets you, followers. Which gets you exposure, which gets you brand deals, which gets you money. Don’t forget, they want you to hate yourself, so you buy their fancy product with the stamp of “guaranteed to make you hotter.”

Now as an adult, I rarely have my boobs out in public. I am still severely uncomfortable being sexualized by strangers without my permission. The looks I receive when I wear a low-cut shirt. You would think I had a porno just playing on my chest, full volume. I would love to wear a light on my head that I could turn on per person and permit them to sexualize me. But thats not how it works.

I know I am just a walking pair of tits to some people and I can’t do anything to change that. After almost ten years with this body, I have no choice but to accept that reality. I know I am a complicated, interesting, and smart woman. I don’t need anyone to tell me that. I mean it would be nice to hear more but I don’t take it as personally as I could. It’s a battle I don’t have the energy to fight every day. It’s a battle I don’t always want to hide from anymore. When I do feel brave enough to wear a low-cut shirt in public it comes with a pep talk in the car. I remind myself to let the comments go in one ear out the other.

“My body is the least interesting thing about me,” I repeat to myself over and over. 

Yes, I still post the occasional revealing pictures on my social media. Not nearly enough as the teenage me did. Except maybe back in 2020, I may or may not have resorted back to that teenage version of me. I try to block that cursed year of my life out of my head.

I do think of social media as an exception to my not wanting to be sexualized rule. I view it differently because I can control it. The older I get the more I realize control is what I crave most. I can control when I want to be sexualized by posting sexy pictures when I feel sexy. At any other time, I have no control over how I’m perceived. 

Another factor I think about a lot these days is how I am also attracted to women. Which is a strange process to go through when it comes to how much I hate being sexualized. I am not a higher-than-thaw person, I will check out people in public. I admire all the femmes, they are goddesses walking amongst the earth. I am greatful for my queerness because I fell more in love with my naked body after I saw the beauty in another woman’s for the first time.

The difference is I will try not to say anything to their faces about it. This might also be common knowledge to you reader but you’d be surprised. Maybe it’s the triple Leo in me, but people are very comfortable commenting on my body to my face. I hate it but I allow my close friends to comment since I know they know all of me.

And look I get it, the boobs are quite distracting. Especially as they’ve gotten bigger with the rest of me. Yet still I find it offputing to be objectified for a decade and then also objectify others. I often feel guilty after staring at a woman’s figure. I promise that I never say a creepy comment out loud. Is that better? I don’t know. Sue me, sometimes you really can’t help but look. I am not here to claim we should stop checking out people. I am just asking maybe we think more about the way we go about it. And definitely shouldn’t do it to minors. I would love for our bodies in general to not be the focus of compliments but - it’s one step at a time.

Let me be clear, I don’t hate being desired overall, it is a tool I keep in my belt and still use when I want it. If I want to detach from the world I’ll allow myself to be someone’s fantasy. It’s nice to perform now and then.

I do envy those who can wear whatever they want and not be scared. I wish I could be seen as a human first and a sexual object last.

I am still unlearning to decenter men from my life.

I am still unlearning that being attractive doesn’t have to be dangerous.

I am still unlearning that anytime someone calls me sexy it doesn’t mean I am not also smart.

I am still learning to accept my body.

I am still learning my body doesn’t define me.

I am still learning that it’s okay on bad days I can’t help to divert to old ways.

I am still deprogramming all that was told to me in my early development.

I will never know what it feels like to just be a teenage girl, but I wish I did.