When I was a child, I had to carry a huge and very heavy schoolbag. I was very careful not to forget anything for fear of being punished. I would check my bag many times at night. Punishments at home were harsh, and completely disproportionate. My parents had not read Beccaria. School wasn’t better. The abbot running it used to look like an overweight vampire. He was very much into kicking and slapping troublemakers, and grabbing them by the ear until they cried of pain, humiliation, and anger. Adults in their late fifties still talk of him today, with rage and helplessness. I knew teachers would punish me just for the pleasure of it, and here I was, days after days, checking my bag over and over again.
It was heavy. I was not living very far from school, but it was really hard to carry that bag. My tiny hands were callous, I had blisters, it was a bit gross, and I kept observing how my skin would repair itself.
After almost four years of bringing back and forth all those books and notebooks, for the sake of a couple of exercises that could have been done on a feather-light spare sheet of paper, my back started a revolt of its own. The family GP finally noticed that my spine wasn’t growing normally. Exams showed that I had developed a double scoliosis. When some kids got trapped into medical corsets, I was just given a few visits at a nearby physiotherapist.
It was horrendous. My breast was just starting to grow. That disgusting man kept asking me to remove my underwear. It was wrong. He kept looking at my tiny breast. We were not even doing corrective mouvements. He spent an entire session measuring me. He was giving me inappropriate looks. I couldn’t hide. I had stay in that room, sinking in myself, with my flesh exposed, nauseous, not knowing what would happen next.
I complained. I was told off. I had hardly any breast, there was nothing to complain about or protect. I didn’t insist. It would just have resulted in punishment.
It went on like that for some time. I was feeling sick. I just wanted it to stop.
I got lucky. After a few weeks, he went on holiday. He was replaced by a decent young man who told me to keep my clothes on and showed me a few moves to help correct my posture.
I lost my breast for a while. It stopped growing and then disappeared. A few months later, I learnt I had anorexia.
Shame on those adults, the disgusting ones who sexualise prebuscent girls, and those who fail to safeguard their modesty.