Baby Dyke

What they did have was a single spare bed in the small, comfortable, quiet, wildly expensive facility for girls with eating disorders.

They asked each of the young women currently living there if it was acceptable that I might occupy a bed in one of the rooms for a while, just the long weekend while I was waiting for a doctor's evaluation. I hadn't been violent, I had gone with the cops without putting up any fight at all, and I was still and I was small and all those things were sufficient for me to be deemed safe. So up they sent me, to somewhere high in Western Psych, above the smells and sounds of the denser-packed wards, above where the care workers were harried and frustrated, to a gentle space with seven or eight young women in it.

I was five foot three, and I weighed about 115 pounds. I was underweight for my frame, as a fair amount of that weight was martial arts muscle; I would probably have been ten pounds heavier if I were healthy, with the amount of activity I got.

I was at least two inches shorter than pretty much every other young woman there, six or seven inches shorter than one of them, and I had at least thirty pounds on several of them. The tallest was not allowed to walk, she had to sit in a wheelchair and be pushed around, because her condition was so advanced that the motion would undo what good

And over the course of the four or five days I was there, multiple of them came up to me alone to quietly tell me that I had the *perfect* body, and they wished they could be as skinny as I was. That I needed to live, because I was beautiful, and if they were as beautiful as I was, they wouldn't need to be here.

Their eyes were on me all the time, in the hours that I wasn't sleeping. I spent a lot of time sleeping, and we took our meals separately (I not needing to be monitored while I ate, and not having my food weighed), but we spent a fair amount of time sitting around in the little shared living room space, talking about movies and magazines and books we'd loved, talking about our families. I didn't talk about my family; they didn't pry.

They were all so fucking nice.

And I could have broken any one of them over my narrow knee. They each thought they were bigger than I was.

Their brains lied to them, every time they looked at a mirror. Every time they looked down at their own thighs. What they saw was not what I could see. They had bright, beautiful eyes in dark hollows, and I could count their vertebrae, could see their ribs winging when they breathed, could see the motion of every tendon on the backs of their hands.

They weren't celebrities. They weren't being paid to have particular bodies, nor were they deep in the toxic sea of having strangers take photos of them to sell to gossip rags if they stepped out of doors in old jeans. They had families and loved ones who were doing everything that they could to protect them, to uplift them and help them be healthy. They were just everyday people--a nurse, a couple of students, a couple of recent college grads, a young woman who had decided it was time to really get help because she wanted to be a mother--and still they'd been so injured by the neverending fucking deluge of body-image bullshit that they were dying of it.

That story about a cat called Felix Martinez who was summonsed for jury service didn’t sit right with me and lo and behold the original author on twitter describes themselves as an “imaginary writer”.

This is the sort of thing that should make local news. And it did! But in 2010 and the cat was called Sal Esposito.

This isn't a justification for the way that these men treat their own partners and children and put them below their moms, but I really think we need to talk about this like the abuse it is and recognize that it's extremely difficult to move past abuse and trauma when you don't even have those words to explain your experiences.

Men often see their daughters not just as their property but also as essentially wives for them, holding the same role in the household and "hierarchy" as the wife/mother does.

Men are obsessed with their daughters' bodies and relationships and will control every aspect of their daughters' lives, from what she wears to who she's allowed to date to what medical care she is allowed to receive. Many men still perform "virginity checks" on their daughters. Many arranged marriages happen because men think it is their right to control who their daughters marry. Girls who get pregnant young and are forced to keep the pregnancy talk about their fathers often treating them like wives and acting they're couples raising the babies together.

This is normalized in a way even boy moms aren't; many mothers not only recognize how their husbands treat their daughters as extra wives, they also see their own daughters as competition! Men force their daughters and step-daughters into playing house with them and then those girls are blamed for it by the women in their lives!