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Oh yeah. That box. When I graduated high school, I decided to gather up everything I owned that had meaning to me and put it in a big cardboard box. That was 14 years ago. With almost no memory of what was in the box, I decided to open it up. Inside I found old schoolwork, report cards, things I had written, things my friends had written, pictures, audio and video recordings, tickets of things I had gone to, and a ton of letters.
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Let me tell you an everyday story about one of the many things that can happen when girls are taught to hate themselves. When I was 13, a man took me up to his apartment while his wife was out, gave me Pernod to drink and tried to manipulate me into giving him physical affection. I worked for this man in the shop he ran below the apartment, and I had agreed to go upstairs with him after weeks of what can only have been careful grooming on his part, following a sustained effort on my part to achieve what I thought was the ideal body size. I actually felt flattered and grateful that he thought I was attractive. This was shortly before he tiptoed his fingers up the back of my leg one day while I slapped his hand away in peals of laughter, my insides burning with the warm glow of approval. It was definitely before he took me to the pub and plied me with snakebites an odious mixture of lager, cider and grenadine that was favoured by the teenagers freely allowed to drink at seaside pubs in early '90s England , my tongue slowly turning bright red as Roger talked to me about his "frigid" wife. She had just had their second baby and was, according to Roger, no longer interested in sleeping with him. He told me about the sex workers he visited instead, and I listened sympathetically.
I always knew. I always knew something was off about my little brother, but now… please, I need help. My little brother, Jeremy, is five years younger than me. After I graduated, it got more difficult. I heard about it even all the way at university. Mom would call me crying about Jeremy.