Stepping Out of the Dreamhouse: How Barbie Found Her Backbone
Shell People
Bestie leans forward, fixes the heroine with a piercing gaze, and says, "You know when you come across one of those empty shell people, and you think, 'What the hell happened to you?' Well, there came a time in each of those lives where they were standing at a crossroads... someplace where they had to decide whether to turn left or right. This is no time to be chicken-shit."
Ring that bell, Howard! It's a K-O!
Bestie delivered a skillful conversational blow that knocked the heroine out of her justifiable self-absorption. Then, Bestie did what all good referees do when a boxer is knocked out. She gave the heroine a count of eight—she gave her time to process and recover from the blow.
At that time, I was happily married. Well, maybe not happily. Happily enough. I was still up, dancing around the ring with the bravado of a trash-talking Conor McGregor. Life had not delivered the 1-2 knockout blows, the uppercut that would leave me sprawled on the mat.
They would come, those crippling, stunning, shattering, swagger-stopping blows, and, like our heroine in Under the Tuscan Sun, they would be delivered by the person I loved and trusted more than any other—my partner. A few lightning-fast uppercuts to the heart, and I found myself one of those saaaad shell people mentioned in Bestie's monologue.
In retrospect, my partner wasn’t solely responsible for my knockout; other factors were at play.
These last few years of painful reflection and rehabilitation have been like watching a crucial scene of a movie in slow motion. I see things now—mistakes I made in the ring—mistakes that have shaped how I will perform in the future.
Shell people, I have come to realize, are rarely created as a result of a sucker punch or a solo lethal uppercut but by a series of shrewdly placed jabs.
Life in Plastic, It's Fantastic!
The bold, boisterous, buoyant blonde image I projected throughout my marriage? It was bravado. It was a shield I used to protect my soft underbelly—my vulnerable self-esteem, my broken heart. People looked at my life and thought it was perfect.
Successful spouse? Check. Beautiful children? Check. Lovely home filled with accessories? Check. Instagrammable vacations? Check. Check. Check.
Behind the picture-perfect Instagram feed were ugly skirmishes that transformed our dream home into a GI Joe Battle Bunker. We were not Barbie and Ken, cruising in our sparkly pink convertible to a party at Skipper's Malibu Beach House. Things were never that idyllic. Our exhaustingly manufactured plastic life was not that fantastic.
If Mattel's Product and Development team had studied our marriage, they would have created "Disconnected Ken & Despairing Barbie." We looked fresh-out-of-the-box fabulous, with perfectly coifed hair and the ideal accessories, but our limbs were not opposable. We did not hug or hold hands. We were incapable of connecting on more than a superficial level. We were miserable and lonely.
I often wandered through our home, gazing at the photographs hanging on our neutral-painted walls, and wondered if any of it was real. I would look at my partner, with a distant gaze and lips curled in the hint of a smile, and wonder if we had ever had genuine love.
The Jab
A few months after we met, we went on a date to the National Zoo. In my Barbie-beautiful memory, the sun was out, the birds were chirping, and we strolled hand-in-hand, sharing a bouffant-shaped cone of pink and blue swirled cotton candy. The reality? It was raining, my shoes were one size too small, and a child vomited while we were waiting in line.
We arrived at the enclosure for the Spectacled Bear, and my date began reading the educational sign explaining the animal's eating habits. "The Spectacled Bear lives in the Andes and has a varied diet, consuming most plants and small animals, though it would not eat Leah. It would spit her out because she wears too much makeup."
And that, Ladies and Gentlemen, is what we call a jab. A stinging single punch delivered with stunning accuracy. A well-executed jab creates space between you and your opponent. A well-executed verbal jab can also create space between you and your girlfriend, provided she's empowered, autonomous, and possesses healthy self-esteem.
"...he delivered his opinions like Edward Scissorhands giving a massage."
Although I had Malibu Barbie's big blonde mane and body-con, beach-ready wardrobe, the self-esteem accessory was missing from my packaging. So I stayed in the ring and practiced my bob and weave. I told myself my date had a minor flaw that marred an otherwise enviable personality and outlook. Sure, he was blunt to the point of being tactless. Yes, he delivered his opinions like Edward Scissorhands giving a massage. But he looked good in his flight suit, promised to support me while I pursued my dreams, and was always up for an adventure!
Disqualification
When did our imperfect, but pulse-racing romance transform from a slightly fractured fairytale into a grudge match? When did the occasional jabs become teeth-rattling uppercuts? Who delivered the below-the-belt, disqualifying blow?
A disqualification happens in a match when a boxer commits too many fouls or flagrant rule violations. They are deemed unfit to continue competing and automatically lose the bout. So what happens when both participants commit fouls or flagrant rule violations?
We trudged along for years, going round-for-round, until the jabs, the uppercuts, and the lengthy time-outs became too agonizing. Stunned, disoriented, and blinded by pain, I finally committed a flagrant rule violation that stunned me. I did something so out of character that it eventually motivated me to throw in the towel: I left the Dreamhouse. Literally. I rented a cottage, packed my tattered self-esteem in a roll-on, and moved to Ireland.
Ring That Bell
I returned from exile with newfound wisdom. Divorce would be profoundly painful, but it would be a chance to shed the remnants of a life that had become a gaudy illusion of perfection, an opportunity to embrace the raw, unvarnished truth of my solo journey.
The bruises of my past life, the unfulfilled hopes, and the bone-deep longing have not faded. The slightest pressure makes me wince. But I have honed my self-awareness.
I have discovered that being a shell person isn't predetermined or unalterable. Healing, like the gradual erosion of the cliffs, is slow but inexorable.
I have learned that real strength lies not in the facade of perfection but in the courage to confront one’s flaws. The journey to becoming whole again is less about fighting battles with others and more about winning battles within oneself. It’s about finding peace in the imperfections and beauty in the bruises.
In the end, the shell people are not those broken beyond repair but those who have yet to discover their strength. I am no longer a prisoner of my past but a traveler on a journey toward a more authentic life.
As I look ahead, I do so with the conviction that every ending is merely the prelude to a new beginning, and every bruise a reminder of the strength it took to overcome the blows.
Disclaimer: This essay reflects my personal experiences and perspectives. It is intended for reflection and storytelling, not as a factual account of any individual’s actions or character.
Now doesn't she sound like a fun doll? |
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