I got so used to thinking of myself as extremely ugly and unloveable (the dysphoria helped with that) – that it was a shock when, at 14, I began to experiment with make-up, and pretty hair and jewellery – and was called beautiful. Frightening, too – the first time I was groped in the street was in full daylight, out to buy some groceries – again, 14 – and a drunk man came up to me, pressed his body into mine and whispered ‘you’re fucking gorgeous’ in my ear. But also exhilarating – flirting with strangers, accepting compliments – one night an older gentleman reached out of a restaurant window as I was passing and gave me a flower, because my face had caught his eye. It was a very simple lesson: doors open for you when society calls you acceptable, desirable. It didn’t stop me from hating my body, from feeling trapped – but, hating my skin so much, and feeling there was no way out – why not let other people enjoy it? And why not use it to make my life easier? Our current beauty standard teaches women to view their own bodies as objects. When you have only a tenuous connection with your physical self I believe that this kind of attitude can almost feel normal.
