Rosebuds
And other awkward words that transport you right back to the brink of puberty.
Me and my best friend Anne goofing about in the phone booth at Woolies, early 80’s
When my Mum innocently pointed out I had little rosebuds, I shrunk into myself as best I could. I was around 13. I spent most of the next few years going about in baggy T shirts and bending myself inwards to try to hide my developing body, I was ashamed and embarrassed. Silly I know, but the things people say, the things people notice, it can be pretty powerful.
Just before puberty hit I had this rangy, skinny phase.
Then comes the time you go for your first bra. We had this shop called Contessa on the high street, most towns seem to have their own little lingerie shop. Usually a middle aged, no nonsense woman starts shoving you about and staring at you, touching you, then strides off out of the flimsy curtain cubicle, revealing you momentarily to the passers by, and grabs an ugly babyish cotton thing, usually with some broderie anglaise on it, in virginal white. She hands it to you, “try that” as she goes off to find more. Urgh, horrible.
Bee stings
And bra buying never got any better for me. A woman in Debenhams made me cry fairly recently! The whole business is awkward, agonising, and there doesn’t seem to be such a thing as a “good bra” though many tell me it’s the wrong fit. I’ve been sized in several different shops on the same day (an experiment) and each one came up with a different size and each brand or style had to be adjusted around that size...ridiculous!
There have been many other names for them and many other insults and adulations. I never thought much about them except that they got in the way of things. I wish I’d appreciated them more in my perky youth!
Fried Eggs
Some of the girls at school were desperate to get their first bra, all sharing their prized devices with each other in the loos. I was always far too shy to get on board with that and I resisted a proper wired, constructed bra until I hit my 30’s! There were other things my Mum said that weren’t designed to hurt me, stay with me or shape my whole life...but they did.
“Ooh, you look good, you’ve lost a bit of weight dear.”
“You should put on a skirt, a bit of makeup, do your hair, the boys will like you then.”
“Don’t give it all away too soon, keep yer ‘and on yer ‘appeny, keep them guessing.”
A great deal of being told to behave like someone I’m not. Wrap myself in what felt like imposter clothes to trick people. And then the advice from well meaning friends…which at times echoed my Mum’s efforts to encourage me.
“You should dress more girly, men like that.”
“Well, don’t go out in your manky jeans, Put something pretty on, show a bit of cleavage.”
Followed by advice on how to play some sort of game where the rules always seemed utterly bonkers to me.
“Don’t call back straight away, keep him waiting.”
“Don’t tell him you like him, it’ll frighten him off.” “Don’t wear/say/do that!!!”
All the don’ts and very few do’s. So in rebellion...I DID!
Baggy jumpers and hiding myself with cats, not much has changed.
Body politics, shaming, self esteem issues, all of this leads to exploitation and harm...and if you let it, you become the one who seeks the harmful experiences to validate your feelings. You think you want someone else to validate you but in reality you’re just sinking to the lowest point because that’s all you think you deserve. You try and try to make out like it’s your choice and it’s fun and why shouldn’t you do what you like, but in the end you realise your folly and reclaim your body and yourself.
Why are we flattered by being told we don’t look our age. Valuing youth over age is at the heart of so much of the conversation. And we must be smooth, muscular, have straight gleaming teeth, shiny hair, fashionable of course, sweat for sport but not sweat the rest of the time, not too short, not too tall, not too skinny, not too fat...argh!
Baby Bumps
I was always seeking validation, I didn’t know this until much later, but it became clear to me in my 30’s when I was unwell, drinking too much to overcome the anxiety and social awkwardness, boozing the panic away and screwing anyone who’d have me. This of course put me in all kinds of dangerous and weird situations. That one time I had sex in the mens loos of an infamous late night drinking hole, an echo perhaps from giving my friend head in a dirty cubicle at raves. All totally consensual, but...what was I trying to prove? I could be like the lads? I shudder to think of that now. I was saying, “We can do it too, sleep around, be wild, have fun, not be judged by it, not get a bad reputation.” I don’t know if I got a reputation, it was the 90’s and noughties, everyone was at it! I’m not the kind of person boys brag about, that was perhaps my saving grace. But also the reason I gave it all away so willingly. Desperate to get people to like me. Aching for one of them to stick around. None of them did of course, but some of them were at least friendly and honest about it. I can deal with pretty much any situation...as long as they’re honest.
Mosquito Bites
Among all those wild nights there were very few where I felt my authentic self, confident in body and mind, happy with the situation. All those rules my friends tried to teach me seemed to lead people to say things they think you want to hear, that maybe you need to be conned into bed. But if someone’s honest you can work within that contract and make informed decisions. If I know it’s going to be a one night wild wonder I will happily go all in and have a pleasant breakfast and a confident cheerio. No guessing games or waiting for the phone to ping! Don’t give me expectations and then not deliver! That’s about the worst thing you can do to someone you’ve just had sex with. I really know what ghosting feels like.
Fleshy Mounds
Perhaps those early tangled words of encouragement that made me feel bad set me on a path. Although it wasn’t solely that, I know. There were many other factors that gave me my unique and yet universal sense of self loathing. Every day there’s billboards, magazines, TV, all telling us to feel ashamed if we don’t fit some kind of model. I try to be happy with my body but I’m constantly being gently shamed, quietly berated, endlessly hurt. It starts early, the cycle of it goes on and on. We’re ALL subjected to it, all brainwashed by it. Even if we fight against it...IT is still there. I don’t want to be someone’s fetish, I don’t want to be tolerated either. Those little digs people would make, chipping away at you. Nicknames about being fat and ugly. “Good personality” being one of the most told lies!
Little Hills
Then there’s the notion of not being fat enough...being somewhere in between. It was always “chubby” at school. Being acceptably slim or out and proud fat, urgh, minefield, don’t go in for you may lose a leg!
And then there’s the idea of changing your life, your diet and exercise regime, working really REALLY hard and STILL not being happy with your body. At least there’s some safety in the fatness.
Me and Mum with Samuel the Spaniel and Dylan the Dog.
I’m grateful to my body though, it’s been through some trauma. I was a clumsy kid, but only a few small stitches in my forehead to show for it. I fell over in my teens, well, I was pushed, but only broke my nose. I’ve broken it a few times since. I was bashed about very badly in a car accident when I was 19 and I didn’t break a bone. The nurses and x-ray staff couldn't believe it! I smashed my face up and split my scalp open though, lots of dramatic blood. I danced and danced on rough uneven ground through my 20’s and had a few spills with the thrills, but again, nothing broken (except the pesky nose a few more times). I had a baby when I was 29 and it really took it out of me physically and emotionally, and I had gained weight. I’ve fallen off my bike a fair few times but no plaster casts! So I am glad of it, it’s served me well mostly. It looks after me but I don't always look after it. I should be as kind to myself as I am to my friends. I wouldn’t dream of saying the things to them I say to myself in the mirror! I also have very lovely friends who say very lovely things. They might be the best mirror I have. We all have to learn to be kinder to ourselves.
Itty Bitty Titties
I would dearly love to stop wearing those baggy T shirts and concaving my body inwards to hide myself. It’s a work in progress, like life itself. I have days where I feel good, days where I feel utterly gross, but most days are something in between. I imagine most of us feel the same way. Growing older is a great gift and a wonderful thing in many ways, but I can’t help feeling a bit cheated sometimes. I wish I’d appreciated myself more when I was younger. But oh, the wisdom that comes...not a bad trade off I suppose!
And my rosebuds? They blossomed.
All photos from my collection.
Written by Vonalina Cake
“My name is Von, I’ve lived in Bristol since 1992 and I’ve lived a lot of lives since then.”