9th November 2018
When I was small, I would go to auditions for commercials, TV shows and movies; I started going to acting classes; and I was taught about the industry, and what it would expect of me as a young woman in the years to come. I learnt that in order to be competitive in the industry, I needed to meet the right sorts of people; to be able to put my best, most virginally squeaky-clean, foot forward; and, I understood, that any worth I had, as an actress, would stem mostly from my appearance. Any talents I had would be considered an exciting bonus, so long as I looked the part.
The industry is a game, you see; and while I’m fortunate enough to have spent not even a decade playing, I spent enough time in it for those rules to seep into my everyday life. I believed that any worth I had, as a human being, stemmed mostly from my appearance. I’d picked up that being blonde with long hair meant being the most beautiful; I’d ask the boys in primary school if they thought I was pretty in survey form; as I got older, I equated the greasy stares and inappropriate comments from old men as validation; and I was always fixated on my weight, eventually to a point where I’d become anemic and had developed amenorrhea.
I was obsessed, and very unhealthy. But that’s just the industry.
There was a time where all I would do was read. I was so voracious I was concerned I might turn into a bookworm (because kids take everything literally, bless). I was a smart, brave, and very intuitive girl; until all sorts of life layers became so heavy that those things weren’t given permission to breathe. I stopped reading, being smart, brave, and intuitive, only to focus on surviving and living out this compulsion to be beautiful.
For the most part, I succeeded (if it's even something you can "succeed" in). There was a solid period where I had no idea what the fuck I was wearing, puberty was a bitch, and my haircuts were almost always questionable; but I knew I was attractive. I am conventionally attractive. I know how conceited that sounds (and, you know, let’s just say I am conceited); but women don’t go swanning through life oblivious to the kinds of attention we get. We are programmed to detect that shit. Or at least I have been.
Looking back on it now, and unhealthy brain cognition aside, I’m pretty embarrassed by the way I prioritised appearance.
For example, when I was living in Wagga, I was doing a philosophy course at the university. I would also, occasionally, travel to Sydney for acting related things. At one point, I was asked to audition for a TV show, and at that same time I’d received a high distinction for one of my essays. I was more proud of being at an “acceptable” weight for the audition than I was for my academic achievement. Now, I understand and respect that all personal values are different. But, come on. That’s just silly.
A lot of my personal values have shifted in the past two years (thank goodness), but, as much as I hate to admit it, I still place a majority my worth in the way I look. Sure, I let myself eat now and I don’t obsess over weight, I cut all my hair off and dyed it near black, sometimes I let my monobrow grow out, and choose to not wear makeup for whatever reason you want to hear: but if men aren’t looking at me on the street, asking me on dates, or if people aren’t telling me how pretty I am, I feel worthless.
Yuck.
I’ve only realised this just recently, and feel very empty because of it. I’d put all of my eggs in one basket, and I’ve now decided those eggs are rotten and no good for me. I don’t have any eggs now. Well, I do. But I need to prove to myself that those are actually my eggs.
Because I really want to be like the young doctor, not much older than I am, who came into work to buy thirty books.
I want to be like my good friend, fluent in Danish, studying Journalism through distance whilst working two jobs.
I want to be like my old school captain who just completed her Honours in Biomedical and Electrical Engineering.
I want to be like the French woman I met in New Zealand, who’s been travelling for eleven years.
I want to be like my five-year-old self: a good reader, smart, brave, and very intuitive.
These are the sorts of of worth that won’t fade by the time I turn thirty (film standards. Don’t worry, Mum, you’re still smokin’). These women don’t have expiry dates, rather a longevity that goes well and truly beyond their youth. These women have really good eggs, and no pooey industry is going to tell them otherwise. My Dad often says, “If you don’t like it, leave.” And so that’s what I’m doing: tapping out for good. Or at least until film and television properly values women for their brains and wit over their big lips and tiny tummies. I’ve been told that’s not going to happen though, so I’m just going to pick up my eggs and go be worthy somewhere else.