A few years back, while assisting my mother with her move, I stumbled upon a surprising relic from my past—my childhood friend turned adversary, Barbie. But this time, I didn’t find just one of her in a box or on a shelf. Instead, I discovered 47 (yes, forty-seven) versions of her crammed into a blue plastic container hidden beneath my bed. Their limbs were splayed awkwardly, hair in disarray, and they were all undressed; their impossibly small waists and featureless bodies were on full display.
For reasons I still can’t quite grasp, I spent the rest of that chilly January day sifting through this collection. My fascination with Barbie began long before I ever owned one. I was barely 5 years old when I realized she was the essential doll I needed in my life. When I finally received my first Barbie for my birthday, my joy was uncontainable. But one was not enough; that single doll quickly multiplied, leading to a collection of 47—a full-blown obsession.
By age 12—equipped with a training bra and a burgeoning self-awareness—I began exploring bodies, both Barbie’s and my own. I would lie on the carpet next to my bed, pressing my stomach flat to mimic hers, and engage in a game I called “Naked Barbies Around the World.” I’d place one of my naked Barbies on a spinning globe to decide where she and Ken would have their pretend adventures. I didn’t fully comprehend the implications of holding her tiny waist and maneuvering her legs, but in retrospect, I recognize that I was reflecting on my own body image through her.
As Barbie shed her clothes, I started to pile on layers. I opted for oversized shirts and baggy jeans while increasingly fixating on food, diets, and the myriad ways to lose weight. I began skipping school lunches, claiming I wanted to “save money,” and instead hoarded food in my backpack, locker, and even my desk. I learned how to say I wasn’t hungry, even when my stomach protested. Soon, I was eating alone.
When I began counting calories, I was already deep into what doctors would later classify as EDNOS (Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified) along with the yet-to-be-defined body dysmorphic disorder. It’s essential to clarify that my love for food never wavered. Some of my fondest memories are from a ’70s style kitchen, where colorful linoleum floors set the stage for playing with Barbie while my mother prepared meals. The lunches she packed—like Kraft Macaroni & Cheese and chicken salad—were the envy of my peers. I can still picture the strawberry-frosted Barbie cake she made for my 5th birthday.
Yet, I also snuck food in that very kitchen. I’d eat dry Stove Top Stuffing straight from the box and hide in the pantry, devouring dry cereal by the handful. I poured instant oatmeal down my throat as if it were candy. I adored food, but looking back, something was profoundly off.
By 15, I had stopped eating altogether, convinced that food was a frivolous indulgence that only led to unwanted weight gain. Standing at just 5’1″, I fluctuated between 100 and 120 pounds, which doctors deemed “healthy and normal,” but I felt anything but. The anguish of starvation was palpable; my body ached, my stomach growled incessantly, and I became resentful of those who dared to eat in front of me. Food morphed into an obsession, taking on the form of numbers—calories, measurements, and exercise minutes. Every aspect of my life was reduced to calculations: How many calories in an apple? How many steps to burn them off?
At my lowest, my diet consisted of jars of Gerber baby food, accompanied only by water and black coffee. It would be unfair to place the blame for my body image issues squarely on Barbie’s shoulders; that’s an enormous burden for a doll. But the moment I received her, I was entranced. As I prepared for outings, Barbie and I would get ready simultaneously. Her Dream House and Dream Car mirrored my aspirations, yet she possessed something I could never attain—a flawless figure. Perhaps that’s why, during that cold January afternoon, I felt compelled to bury her. I needed to lay to rest the myth of perfection, the dreams I held so tightly, and the pursuit of an unattainable ideal. So, I carefully gathered her dismembered parts into a black bag, granting them the most dignified farewell a Hefty Ultra Flex could offer.
This article was originally published on July 27, 2015. For more insights on navigating similar journeys, check out our other post on home insemination and couples’ fertility journeys. For excellent resources on pregnancy and home insemination, consider this podcast.
In summary, the exploration of body image through the lens of childhood toys can reveal profound truths about our relationship with ourselves and food. The journey is often complex, filled with nostalgia, obsession, and ultimately, the need for acceptance.