She gazes at herself in the mirror. Her face is too close to the glass, and her breath leaves hot fog in its wake. Her eyes search her skin, finding each mark and flaw. Her pores seem clogged, her skin greasy, her acne worse than ever. She rubs at the skin beneath her eyes, as if she could erase the bags that hang there. All she succeeds in doing is making her pale skin more blotchy. She gnaws at her bottom lip, trying to imagine what she might look like if her eyes were a bit larger. She’d be prettier.

She sucks in her stomach, arching her back a bit. Too much side fat, too much of a belly bump, too-wide shoulders. On and on. Unable to find a single thing she likes about herself, she quickly puts on her clothes and exits the bathroom.

She gazes up at the photographs on the walls of Victoria’s Secret behind the cash register. She is buying overpriced bras and underwear because she feels like they will make her body look good. No one will see it, but it’s her own opinion that matters.

But now, looking at the images of the Victoria’s Secret Angels, she realizes that she doesn’t look good in the underwear after all. People tell her that being “thick” is a good thing, that having a bigger chest and bigger hips makes up for also having a bigger waist, but the girls in the photographs are like sticks. If they are considered at the top of beauty standards, what does that say about her? They look nothing like her. She bites her lip and pays for her expensive items.

At a young age, her mom shows her a video of a woman getting photo-shopped to match the beauty standards of magazines. Her mom wants her to understand that she shouldn’t compare herself to those pictures. The model doesn’t even look like the same person by the end of the video. She has longer legs, bigger eyes, thicker hair, smoother and brighter skin, a thinner waist, so on and so forth. “The things in magazines are fake, and you should never compare yourself to those girls. They aren’t real.” Her mom smiles sadly, and her daughter nods in determination. She will never fall into those traps.

She is seven years old, staring down at her stomach. “Am I fat?” she asks her eight-year-old cousin. He doesn’t know the extent of her fear, her need for an answer. He doesn’t know the societal views, doesn’t understand the pressure, doesn’t see the box women are trapped in. He responds with, “Well, can you see your feet when you look down?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re not fat.”

She is seven years old, but she doesn’t believe him.

“Why are you complaining? At least you have a butt and boobs.” Her friend rolls her eyes and purses her lips, scanning her own body up and down. The girl is thin and beautiful, and yet she doesn’t like herself.

“Why are you complaining? You’re skinny and actually pretty,” she responds, sucking in her stomach and trying to imagine what it would be like to feel good.

She mixes the green powder into coconut milk, shaking the mixture vigorously. She looks forward to the drinks now, the time when she can choke down some sustenance. The pills are disgusting. It’s been five out of ten days. She’s already lost six pounds. She feels proud and healthy, and maybe even a bit skinnier. Just five more days. If she keeps this up, she’ll be even skinnier before going to Hawaii. She actually feels good, happy – like she’s in control of her body this time. She wants to be able to feel good in a bathing suit, so a 200 dollar juice cleanse is worth it.  

She is curled in a ball on her bed, crying so hard she can’t breathe. It’s been three days since the end of her juice cleanse, and she was feeling so proud for doing all ten days. She wasn’t as skinny as she would have liked, but at least it was something. But now, three days later … she stepped on the scale … every pound, plus two, had come back. She screams into her pillow and digs her nails into her arms. She hates herself.

“I’m not really hungry.” Her friend glances at her and then looks away.

“You should probably eat, though. Did you have breakfast?” she asks.

“Yeah. I’m just not hungry.” Her friend doesn’t meet her eyes. The girl hasn’t eaten in two days.

She glances down at her dinner and pushes the food around. Her stomach hurts. She didn’t eat breakfast – or lunch – but she is so done with feeling bad. She thought it would be impossible to not eat for a whole day, that she was too much of a pig, but it seems that her hatred has won out.

She walks down the street toward Safeway. She is in a good mood, the sun brightening the day. She hits the crosswalk and glances over just in time to see a car, its windows being rolled down. A loud whistle comes from the vehicle before it speeds off, laughter echoing. She stares after it, shocked and disgusted. She tries to convince herself that the whistle wasn’t directed at her, that men are better than that.

She walks down the school hall, threading her way through the crowds of people. She keeps tugging the bottom of her shirt, unsure if it looks good. The outfit is a bit … exposed … but she thought she looked good in it. She keeps her stomach sucked in tight, knowing from looking in the mirror for ages that it makes her look better. One of her guy friends walks by and takes in the tight shirt and cropped shorts.

“Haha, you look like a stripper.” He laughs, and she laughs along with him, but she’s cringing inside. She liked the way the outfit looked, making her body look curvy and not chubby. But apparently it’s too much. 

She stands by her car, feeding the tube into the gas tank. She looks at her phone, trying to avoid looking at the two older men standing around the other car next to her.

“Look at her, she’s hot!” The voice is loud and crass.

She stiffens and gives a strained smile toward the men, trying to ignore the clenching in her stomach.

“Hey, what’s your number, cutie?”

The gas clicks off and she practically runs to the driver’s door.

“Is that a no? C’mon hottie, get over here.”

She hops into the driver’s seat and drives away as fast as she can, her hands shaking sporadically. Eventually, she pulls off the road, rests her forehead on the steering wheel, and begins to cry.

An acquaintance of hers cries on one of her friend’s shoulders. The girl gets like this every night apparently, because of PTSD. She has nightmares and has attempted suicide multiple times. She was gang raped.

She presses the button to get her parking ticket in order to leave the mall. She wears a small shirt with an open back, something she wouldn’t wear to school but thought was okay to wear to the mall. Her friend taps away at her phone beside her, texting one of their other friends.

She looks around, and sees the old man standing a few feet away with his phone out. The way it was positioned, the way he was holding it … Was he filming her?!

She taps her friend’s wrist frantically, but the girl is oblivious. He walks by laughing, and lowers the phone when he has passed. She feels bile rise in her throat and she drags her friend from the mall. 

She watches the TV intently, the court battle between Brett Kavanaugh and Christine Ford playing out over the screen. This woman is so strong, speaking her truth in front of the world, facing death threats and hatred, to try and prevent things like this from happening to other girls. Girls like her acquaintance, who didn’t see the point in living anymore because she had been violated so completely. But it seem that even the highest justice in the country can ignore this. She buries her face in her hands as she watches the darkness of society as it unfurls before her eyes on the television screen.

She reads the news, and articles, and sees movies. She knows that, in many minds, her gender is the fair sex, the weaker sex, the more inferior sex. That she is somehow less intelligent or less capable than her brother, or her boy friends. That she has less value, except as a pretty object to be admired. It makes her wonder about how history has played out, how ancient concepts of hunting and gathering continues to play out today, how people still believe that women should be paid less, that their contributions are less worthy.

Women are the strongest people she knows, more mature and forward thinking than the men she interacts with. They fight through body shaming, impossible beauty standards, catcalling, leering, and arrogance. They give birth to children and raise them to be good citizens of this planet. They juggle life’s difficulties and struggle to succeed despite the pressure against them.   

And yet …

Her friend doesn’t eat.

Her acquaintance doesn’t sleep.

And she still hates herself.