coming of rage

exploring girlhood in institutional/clinical environments

[girlscomingofrage]

I can hold a grudge like my mother held me.

I know not to hold on too tight -

To smother and in return get smothered by my stubbornness.

Hm

[girlscomingofrage]

I am friends with many brown teethed men.

They mock me and my loose appetite for more.

As they snicker at my poor reception of their banter, I remember these boys know not of the difficulty that comes with being a bitch.

Being a bitch.

Bitch.

[girlscomingofrage]

“By the time I was thirteen, I had divorced my body,” she says. “I was sociopathic in my cruelty toward this one [animal]. When she disobeyed me-in her hunger, in her clumsiness-I was punitive and withholding. I scrutinised and criticised and denigrated her ceaselessly, even in dreams. Not before or since have I felt such animosity toward another being.” She loathed her hands, sought to make herself smaller, to erase herself, to be less wanting. 1

I have learned that I can take shape. In a pure body, polluted by readiness for the first sex, in a body that mimics those seductive ones with things to grab, or in a cold body, one with nothing to hold onto, but a hole in the stomach.

Im speaking of the need to have something to hold onto, to prove that you exist, that you have control over your growing up.

When a girl realises that she's becoming a woman, she realises the inevitable fact that she will lose the genderless status of the pre-girl. There's nothing she can do about it. I hypothesise that starving is an attempt to not only stop womanhood from setting in too quickly, too early, but also to feel as if you have a semblance of say in your own life.

[girlscomingofrage]

Hello.

Think of the Observer Effect. In physics, the act of watching a particle changes it. It isn’t the particle anymore, it behaves differently because someone is looking. The observation collapses possibility. It decides for the particle what it can and cannot be.

That particle is a child. From the first moment someone notices her as a girl, she begins to behave differently. She doesn’t choose yet; she reacts. Just as someone reacts to her. She learns that her body, her manners, her face, are signals to be read.

Becoming a girl is like that particular collapse. The gaze forces her into a form, into expectation, observation. 

She observes herself in mirrors, in feeds, in films, in magazines and learns how to be observed better. The world measures her before she understands measurement.

This is where girlhood begins: in anticipation. In learning to perform before she has language, before she has context. The entered process is already in motion. Social, internal, generational. 

And here, in that reaction, begins the age of becoming. The coming of rage. Girlhood. 

[girlscomingofrage]

Im feeling a deep need to write my heart out badly. So badly in fact that absolutely nobody can be bothered to read it

[girlscomingofrage]

São Paulo Rain

Ive had the honour of experiencing this about four times.

This city set in stone, veins sealed beneath asphalt, rivers move in secrecy, governing life in ways we can only aspire to.

But When the clouds open, no authority can reroute them. the water remembers its path, and even its bastard offspring, the fifth element concrete, that proud and rigid daughter of human will, begins to soften and weep.

Nobody can redirect these sudden waterways. All we can do is hide out and confess our limits and have good manners in the sudden theater we find ourselves in.

Someone has ripped opened the curtains.

Let me be a good spectator and marvel at the wetness.

How it spectrally multiplied all colours known to day.

Every surface shimmers as if newly invented, for the first time seen without her veil of control.

Everyone under this filter. Beaming Violet.

Ive heard it, the laughter of the storm, a rhythm so vast, so intimate, it cleaves through walls and bodies, Ripping through sleep and other conditions with ease. Thank you for waking me

Four times I’ve stood under the overflowing sky and watched a mother beat her child. How ironically human that the very structures raised to master the world now bow before it.

Were all just bystanders with nothing to add to this conflict but our own unbridled enthusiasm.

We can run and duck and gather beneath some leaky tower.

We can look at our rearranged selves and be happy we get to see eachother that way, and laugh, and look at where we came from and how it washed away before.

We can take its offer of unforgettable moments completely detached from time.

[girlscomingofrage]

Skin

My cheeks were  reflecting  the longest wavelength - Fiona Apple

Light is comprised of several wavelengths. The Visible Spectrum, light that is visible to the human eye, is between 400 and 750 nanometers. Red is any of a number of comparable colours evoked by light consisting mainly of the longest wavelengths of the visible spectrum, at approximately 630-750 nanometers. : Fiona was blushing.

Red is known to be the very first color that is registered in a baby's mind.

The human body produces the pigments melanin and hemoglobin, which create brown, black, red, and yellow colours. Bruises change colours because the hemoglobin in leaked blood breaks down over time, starting red and progressing through blue, purple, black, yellow, and brown as different pigments are produced in different stages of healing. Initially, the bruise is red from oxygen-rich blood. Within a day or two, the blood loses oxygen and turns blue or purple. After 5–10 days, the body's enzymes break down the hemoglobin into biliverdin (green) and bilirubin (yellow).

Strange how my favorite colour is violence.

The skin Undertone is the inherent, reflective quality of your skin caused by its semi-transparent layers. It is not your surface skin colour (overtone), but rather how light passes through and reflects off these layers. However I feel that there is just skin colour and that colour can lean warm or cool.

Sometimes colour analysis feels like they’re seeing something that isn’t there. The overall « undertone » concept as if its colour, hidden underneath seems strange as if that was the case we would all be red-ish.

We would all be blushing.

[girlscomingofrage]

on sexuality:

She will catch feelings if you take her virginity.

The first sex is an aesthetic loss, as it makes the girl realise that now, no matter what she has done, she has transformed into a woman, a woman that can have sex, be sexual. 

Because only women have sex, everybody knows that. Girls don't fuck, girls are made women by the men that de-flower them.

Women that haven't had sex yet are still girlish in the way that when this topic comes up, it is handled with such delicacy and importance as if it's the last step she has to complete before becoming a woman. 

She will catch feelings if you take her virginity. 

That's the fetish about girlhood, taking it away. Then she’s lost it all. Maybe girls want to take it away themselves without fucking them themselves over. Doesn't change however, that the only way the girl becomes woman finally societally is not the period, but the entering of a Man.

The hymen is not just physical, it is a societal one. The Hymen is gone as soon as you read girl in a language that isn't what they expect. When they read woman. When I read girl, but I'm fucked up on drugs, my hymen is gone. When I look like a virgin, despite being fucked, my hymen is there.

Its the illusion of innocence, not its actual existence. The value. When you’re young you have to be extra extra protected. By the law and by the hymen. The physical hymen keeps out the mans influence. Inadvertently recognising it as polluting. It also keeps out the possibility of a child producing another child. When its broken, you have been polluted. Lost your innocence. You no longer feel like a child because you could theoretically produce one. 

Then the legal hymen expires at 18. The law kicks you out its nest. Then its ok to fuck with you. This legal hymen is like a plug where as soon as its removed, sex just flows out of you. Or into you. Its allowed now…

The moment the plug is gone the girl confuses the hymen with innocence. The truth is: the girl doesn’t “lose” innocence, she realises it was never hers to control. Innocence is a currency traded over her head, priced by others, validated by the male gaze, revoked by it. You don’t even hand it over. It’s taken, reassigned. Theres before and after. Except the before is already contaminated by the after.

The first time someone looks at you as a sexual object / being, a internal tear scars your hymen. Through this tear a seed finds its way into your undiscovered womb. This is the first pregnancy: the implantation of potential. You could be sexual now. Not because you feel desire, but because someone else has seen it on you. Projected it onto (into) you.

From that moment on, the girl carries the embryonic question inside: What am I now? What did he see? What changed? It grows without her consent. It demands her attention. It reorganises her identity around a new gravitational centre: sexual possibility, sexual danger, sexual misunderstanding.

A pregnancy with no baby, only the potential (but inevitable) woman she must now learn to mother or abort. But you can’t abort perception. You can only react to it.

So she will think that the reaction to her as a woman must mean she is less of the girl she has just started being.

(PLEASE GIVE ME YOUR THOUGHTS ON THIS IF YOU HAPPEN TO BE READING THIS)

[girlscomingofrage]

on growing:

I make it pretty. So fucking pretty I will shove my pretty down your throat. Actually I will shove it down mine and i'll stop being pretty i'll fatten up on my youth and disgust you instead with my adolescence wasted in pictures i’ll look back on in my next body and ill do a white person smile and say yeaaaahhhhh I was fat growing up.

[girlscomingofrage]

Herr Müller:

Even years after I had deserted the school, I would still hear about him from people who went to check it out. He would always ask them if they knew me, and if the answer concerned him, he'd follow up with, "What has she told you?" or "I beg you to form your own opinion." He was concerned that the castle, the uniforms, and all his technology weren't enough to win the war against the word of a 16-year-old girl.

They weren’t. Thankfully.

When I heard that he had left the school and retreated up north, I no longer had anyone left to talk about it with. Abandoning them and me, the same way my prejudices had abandoned a good reputation. The truth was that I was terrified.

They offer a „future- and values-oriented education“. I wonder where the bullying fit into that.

Maybe because bullying forces you to make allies rather than friends. There’s a lot more to lose in that kind of war.

Sandbox love never dies.

Jolina:

Some gossip is good enough to rekindle old connections. When Jolina Maria Magdalena was photographed front and center at an anti-Corona protest yielding a crucifix, I had two people call me. And her. It made sense, back then, the three of us seemed inseparable.

Nobody knew we were just associates. I didn’t know if the news was big enough to bring us back together.

It wasn’t. Thankfully.

[ferne-renee]

[girlscomingofrage]

when did you realise you were becoming a girl?

[girlscomingofrage]

Medikinet 40 mg

I am sitting in my boyfriends atelier. The lights are awfully bright. Though unrivalled by my screen I can feel the glare taking me up slowly. My brain is buzzing as I have been looking at my phone for about 25 minutes, waiting to come up. 

My hands get colder. The familiar urgency has me Focused tight on them. They feel cold. Sweaty. Clammy. weightless. All the blood has moved up up up into my shoulders. I no longer feel the sweat between my double crossed legs; the sensation fled with the blood. It abandons my extremities for my torso. Cheeks burning up. Warmth in my nose. It is sitting on my chest. It is the feeling of my clothes being too warm and too cold, too tight and nonexistent at the same time. It makes me damp all over like a moldy student housing shower. It stiffens my core with attention. It piles onto me, compounding the weight I already force onto the sofa. It’s a miracle it hasn’t caved under me and my cargo. As my gravity is crushing a crater into the pleather, sensations of various extremes puzzle me in a comfortable familiar way.

My head is floating. My hair is too hot. My Feet freezing. I get confused about how warm the room actually is. It feels like all temperatures combined. I get my mass untangled and up to close the window. I have already completed the task and gotten annoyed with its banality long before I even reach for the handle. The Colossus of Rhodos is sweaty and determined. I can feel the urgency. I have to make a decision on every move. Every step urgently manual. I need to blink. I need to unclench my butt, my back and my jaw. I need to really really get going. As I crash back into the couch, I can feel the confines of my human condition fading into the background of unimportance. I pay for this momentary overriding of my nature with sweat. 

I have been waiting for this. 

Finally, I am able to write this text. 

How come it takes the absolute haunting of my senses for me to focus.

[girlscomingofrage]

greenhouse me

The sun is hot on my back. Im scared it will make me grow like all the others. I feel big enough already. Bigger than the last time I was here. If up and out is the only way to go why does the one part of me that stays the same demand shrinking.  I wish it was not the sun, but you touching me. I know your touch won’t make me grow in size. it will only melt me as I always turn fluid under your fingers. Common is the warmth. No, the heat. No, the sweat you produce on my back. The rest of me would follow in liquid form if it were you. Turn me inside out though my pores please. change my aggregate state please. We all evaporate eventually

[girlscomingofrage]

mass

I saw the spider from far away. Hanging over the back door like a bad omen. The upside down horseshoe was the size of my thumbnail. But even shortsighted and in the dark and made out its mass. Undulating above the door it grew as I approached to a size more theoretical. 

Do I dare today? 

Is the walk of shame around the house the only way past this duel? We had a stare down. 14 eyes too many. Tumbleweeds rolling past. This door wasn't big enough for the both of us. 

I cowardly filed it under not wanting to disturb the animal and turned around. As I drag myself to the other entrance in shame, I remember that I too felt the biggest at my smallest.

[girlscomingofrage]

Crafting

Self-sexualisation is, paradoxically, both empowering and constrained, a method of designing a self that is acknowledged within a world that defines girls by their appearance.

Personal experience echoes this lesson. I remember distinctly sending my first nude. All the horror stories flashed through my mind: girls in America, destroyed by exposure, harming themselves, having to change schools. I thought not again. I was already sitting in my third school. Relief came when the image was not circulated. Safe this time. 

I became obsessed with crafting images, to elicit a precise reaction from anyone who looked. I learned to simulate intimacy while protecting my identity, to design a self that existed in rumor, in observation, but never fully traceable.

The image became the everyday. The manufacturing bleeding over into the way I carried myself in the hall. Slut is also a compliment as it describes a woman, a woman I could be. Yes, a promiscuous woman, but a woman nonetheless.

[girlscomingofrage]

Hello everyone!

I’m looking for literature / testimonies that explores female coming-of-age experiences within clinical, institutional, or high-pressure environments.

Places like boarding schools, hospitals, treatment centres, or similar contained settings. I’m especially drawn to diary-style or first-person narratives that capture how young girls make sense of the strange, intense worlds they find themselves in.

I’m currently reading Girlhood by Melissa Febos, but I’m searching for works that feel more like if Cassie from Skins had published her diary.

I’m not afraid of graphic or unfiltered accounts; in fact, I’m deeply interested in how girls understand and perform their emerging sense of sexuality and self design within these environments.

Any recommendations would be so appreciated! And if this topic resonates with you personally and you’d like to chat about your own experiences or research, please feel free to reach out.

Thank you so much!

(This account was formerly used by me from a different time. Im over that now. All better)