Originally published May 2019
Asa child, I never played with the good Barbie. You know the good Barbie: the newest one, the coolest one, the one not yet missing any accessories, hair, or limbs, the best possible toy to play with among all the available toys. Somewhere along the line I learned that the good Barbie was what other girls got to play with, while I had to play with the other ones, the alternative Barbies. This included the older ones, the worn out ones, Skipper—all that shit. There were categories of toys for the other girls, and categories of toys that were for me. It was understood. Whatever we were playing, I always got the worst option. The unwanted Monopoly piece, the yellow pool float—not the pink one. As an adult, I don’t even care that I didn’t play with the good Barbie. I care that I chose the lesser Barbies for myself.
There’s no telling where I picked up this lesson, but it was probably from my earliest school days. Somewhere along the way I learned that I didn’t get to play with the nicest thing because I didn’t deserve to. I wasn’t good enough for them. The good Barbie was for the other girls, and whatever was less was for me. I gravitated to that belief. I knew to pick the bad Barbie because the good Barbie was for someone else, and if I chose her there would be trouble.
“No, it’s fine — you can take the good Barbie. I actually like the one with all her hair cut off.”
I’m sad I ever convinced myself that lesser versions of things were actually my preference. It wasn’t really true. I wanted the best, but learned early on that the best wasn’t meant for me. There was no argument, no tantrum, it was far more simple, even natural. Every fiber of my being came to accept a lesser amount of worthiness when compared to that of others. There was no single, traumatizing memory that stands out to define this. It feels more like a belief I developed over time. I truly don’t know where this feeling came from, but it came. And never left.
It would be easier to say that this was the result of bullying, but that came later. The lesson of the good Barbie arrived when I was young, really young, and that feeling of living life inherently in second place was so potent that it truly became who I thought I was, or had to be. There wasn’t any sadness about it, just absolute acceptance. This is me, I am less than others. And that’s okay with me, because when I behave as less, things are fine, things are easy. And the world mirrored this back to me. The world accepted me the way I accepted myself, as less. I simply wasn't a good Barbie girl.
But then, I started to grow up. And I always let my friends have the best seat in the booth. I always offered to sit up front with the cab driver so no one else had to. I let someone else pick the hotel room bed closest to the window. Every day I reiterated to the world around me my own less-ness. And the world gave back exactly what I was telling it I was worth.
It used to be toys, but now it permeates how I see everything. Of course she has a great apartment and can afford it. Of course she’s surrounded by close girlfriends all the time. Of course she got a book deal. Of course all the good things are for other people, because that’s how it's supposed to be. I’ve been carrying that bad Barbie truth around with me, always.
But it isn’t a truth, it’s a belief. This is the first step toward shaking that dusty idea out of my brain. It's acknowledging that the feelings of lesser worth I’ve carried around with me forever are keeping me from what I really want, from all the wonderful things I see others have, and have falsely assumed that they’re simply more worthy than me.
I could have played with the good Barbie. I could have said, “Hey—it’s my turn to play with the good Barbie,” but I didn’t. I accepted my lesser Barbie status, internalizing unworthiness and avoiding sticking up for myself in order to keep the peace. I think I’m done apologizing for existing now.
I have always deserved the good Barbie, I just never felt like I did. And I’m not going to be sad that a little girl felt like she mattered less than other little girls for such a long time. There is no blame or shame on her that could ever change the 30 years that followed. What I choose to do now, I do in service of the next 30 years. I am making a conscious effort with my actions, and a subconscious effort, through a lot of work, to show the world, myself, and my 6-year-old self, that I am worthy of exactly what I want. Not a lesser version, not a smaller version, but exactly what I want. Don’t be sad for that 6-year-old girl because I’m not. She’s going to get everything she always wanted because she finally knows she deserves it.