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Life in Plastic: Growing up as a Barbie Girl in the Real World

“There’s nothing stronger than the connection between a girl and the doll world she made up in her head.” - Me, 2023

         Barbies were a lonely girl’s favorite toy. I only played Barbies with one particular friend because we had a mutual understanding– she played with her dolls, I played with mine. It was all made up on the spot, but we had time to plan out bigger events and postpone things like weddings until the next time we saw each other. Neither of us would ever make each other do something out of character. It was like parallel play, but with a higher level of awareness. This is not to say if you didn’t do this you weren’t doing it right; there’s no right way to play. In fact, I’ve always thought I had done it wrong. I put too much time into my imagination, to the point where I’d obsessively think about my other worlds, taking me from the real one. If that sounds strange or scary to you, then this might not be the essay for you.

Barbies were my introduction to the conscious mind. It sounds dramatic, but I truly believe I became sentient when I was able to project my thoughts and feelings onto a piece of plastic and recognize that they were still mine. The dolls held my secrets to my universe, they spoke a language only I knew. The older I got, the more complex my playtime became and at some point I realized I wasn’t just playing, I was creating a storyline, a universe with laws and constraints[1]. My dolls had consistent characteristics; they evolved from husks into flesh cut from my own skin. Most were heavily inspired from movies and TV show characters, but soon took on a new shape. I had over fifty Barbies at one point and each had a name, a purpose, and a home in a giant plastic bucket. On very rare occasions were Barbies retconned, donated, or thrown out after being mauled to pieces by my dog. An arm or leg missing never bothered me much, as long as I could keep the story pushing. I was also only vaguely aware of what death and loss felt like; meaning, I didn't know how to play that out so it just never happened ‘on screen’. But I was so deeply attached that when it got taken away from me, I mourned the loss of the little girl in me. My childhood had been seized from me before I was ready to let go. Would I ever have been ready to let go? I played with them up until around 14, despite the subtle comments from my grandmother that I “needed friends my own age”. I had friends my own age, but they weren’t like me. They didn’t understand me, but Barbies could because they were me and I was them. I was always Barbie and Barbie was always me.

But this wasn’t just a long, on-going TV show I was producing in my head; it was a way for me to process things. I could act out scenes with dolls and not be misunderstood because I was in control of the narrative. I didn’t have to explain myself to my dolls; they knew what I meant the first time. And I knew who I was by looking at them— who they had become over the years. How their characters changed, how their hair length changed, how their clothing changed, how they were broken and put back together with tape. The stories got sadder, deeper, and harder to explain to even to my closest friend[2]They grew with me because they were an extension of me. I was always Barbie and Barbie was always me.

I was an existential kid. This is not meant to glorify it, I am simply stating what is true. I started dreading my birthday after I turned ten when I realized I would now always be in the double digits and probably wouldn’t reach the triple digits. I cried on my birthdays. I cried when I graduated elementary school. I cried when I graduated middle school. I cried when I graduated High school. I weeped when I graduated college. Growing older has always felt like a punishment. Each year had more growing pains than the last. Before I even knew women had an expiration date, I was terrified of running out of time.

I never felt like I was enough. I was never the best at anything. I was never known for anything. Maybe I was a product of my time, but with every passing year there was less of a chance of me becoming the “dancer/singer/archer/artist/respectable human that’s ONLY __ years old!” The older you get, the less impressive that statement becomes. I missed my window of opportunity to become a child prodigy. You don’t get on The Ellen Show by doing something that’s typical for your age. You don’t win America’s Got Talent by being ‘kind of okay’ at something. What value do I have if I’m just average? If I am just a background character in my own life, why should I celebrate my birthday? Why should I celebrate being a girl? Being a woman, of all things?

For a very long time I didn’t feel like I had a proper girlhood because I wasn’t into makeup, I wasn’t into boys, so I didn’t feel connected to my straight friends on the level they were (or at least pretended to be). I felt like I was doing something wrong or was missing something very obvious. Like everyone was a part of this secret club where they understood what being a girl meant. I only knew what being a girl meant in relation to what not being a girl meant— it meant being different from my brothers but not quite like my mom either. It meant being made from dust and ribs, being made to suffer for sins I had no part in committing. It meant accepting that as the truth and not complaining because that’s just how things are and I should be so lucky to even be allowed to bleed. Being a woman meant being in pain, being lonely, and not being able to talk about it. I want to talk about it.

But girls don’t want to talk about that at sleepovers. They want to talk about field hockey. They wanted to talk about boys that never even looked at me, never mind knew my name. They wanted to sing songs I didn’t know the words to by bands I didn’t know. They wanted to watch TV shows I wasn’t allowed to watch in my Catholic household. They talked about feelings that I couldn’t feel because I was made of plastic. But I could be anyone because I was no one, so I smiled and nodded along.

I knew at a very young age I was different, but not in the cool way that gets you famous. In the isolating way that makes you feel like none of your friends understand you. As a young kid I had lots of different friend groups because I could adapt and mold myself to blend in. I tried a lot of different hobbies; horseback riding, gymnastics, softball, band, drawing. I could be anyone I wanted because I was nobody. I remember sitting with my counselor when I was in middle school and telling her I didn’t know how to make friends because I didn’t know who I was. The most useless phrase in existence–“just be yourself!” isn’t helpful when you don’t know who you are or who you want to be. I’ve walked around my whole life feeling like a fraud, like a caricature of a real person, a star in The Truman Show. I wasn’t real, and none of my friends were. Everything they knew about me was lies I sold them. Every conversation was one I rehearsed in my head hours before. I was made of plastic, my body hollowed out to be filled with whatever I could find to fill the cavity. I was entirely inhuman, only an alien pretending to be one of them. I was lonely and homesick for a place that didn’t exist. I was always Barbie and Barbie was always me.

Throughout my life, I have made art pieces depicting myself as anything but human because that's how I felt.[3] In high school I saw myself as my mental illness, as the representation of everything I would never become. I was spiteful, disenchanted, and convinced that I was disgraced by those closest to me. I destroyed everything I touched— ripping it apart with my hands so I could feel it between my fingers, because I needed to hold it to know it was real and not just in my head. I called myself a monster, a sinner, a caged tiger that would kill if given the chance. I could be anyone because I was no one, so I destroyed myself from the inside.

I cried watching Barbie because I saw myself over and over again in the faces of the people around me. The faces of the women around me who saw themselves in Barbie. Are we all so lost in this world that we need to be told that it’s okay to not know who you are? How badly have we been broken that we can’t imagine a world where we don't have to worry about aging, running out of time, deciding our careers? Are we destined to always feel this lost and disconnected from each other? Have I gone through life believing everyone else knew who they were when really they were faking it just as much as I was? Have they always been Barbie, too?

I left that theater knowing my brother did not feel the way I did. I know a lot of people don’t feel the way I do, and I wish I could be like them. I can never justify my desire to return to the earth and become dust and bones again; maybe in my truest form I’ll finally understand what it’s like to be a woman. Maybe I’ll finally know what the world expects of me. Maybe I’ll speak their language and know what they’re feeling. I’ll know the songs they sing, and the games they play, and I’ll be able to celebrate being a woman, celebrate my birthday without my tears putting out the candles. Maybe I’ll become human— not a monster, a sinner, or a caged tiger.

[1] I’d joke about being the God of my dolls, but my mom would never approve of the blasphemy. I hope she reads this and doesn’t blame herself for not playing with me. I hope she reads this and finally understands why I cried so hard and for so long when she gave away all my Barbies that day I got too sick to help run the yard sale. I thought maybe it was her way of punishing me for saying I would never have a daughter to pass them down to. I forgive you, but I still needed to write this. I still need people to know I am human underneath it all.

[2] Everyone wants a doll that looks like them. Maybe that’s why I used red and pink markers to draw lines on my doll’s legs. I don’t know how to explain that to people without them becoming scared of me. I was only 13.

[3] I still feel this way sometimes, but I don’t hate myself for it anymore. I think I am misunderstood in the way that tall people were mistaken for giants in the Bible, or hallucinations were mistaken for visions from God.

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