The perks and misfortunes of isolation

I was groomed by my parents to be the best at whatever I did, whether it was videogames, arm-wrestling, or school grades. While this invited into my life a level of toxic competitiveness and perfection-chasing that plagued my overall mental health until way into my adulthood, it also made me completely unaware of the fact that I, or any girl, was supposed to be inferior to boys in anything. My peers, however, slowly tried to socialize me, via bullying, on what my interests should or should not be. Still, the combined isolation of only childhood and helicopter parenting allowed me to grow protected from most detrimental gendered expectations on my abilities or choices of pastime.

I remember being very fearless and physical. I was a great swimmer. We were members of a club that was beautiful, but definitely past its prime, perched upon the green hills of Laranjeiras, the Fluminense. While its strongest tradition was soccer, the garnet, green and white colors of its uniforms competed in a wide range of categories, and they had excellent pools. I would spend weekends trying to break my own records in a varied array of activities: speed while swimming, or time holding my breath at the bottom of the diving pool, sitting with crossed legs for as long as I could stand the pressure on my ears.

I also loved climbing. I broke my front tooth when I was eight years old, climbing a tree at school. On that day, I was by chance gifted my very first personal journal, and this story is the first ever entry I wrote there.

My parents used to have their offices in a big old three-story house. They would often take me with them to work—it was a family business, so it was common that the adults would simply take their kids there when needed—and I would be left on my own to investigate potential entertainment alternatives. One day, my seven-year-old self evaluated that I could climb the house’s façade all the way through to the top floor, which I proceeded to do repeatedly, deftly choosing my points of support among the rococo details and window frames until one day, my uncle caught a glimpse of me as I was passing by the second floor. I signalled him not to tell my parents, which he instead wisely did, immediately.

Realizing it would be my last climb, I finished up instead of down, re-entering the building through my father’s office window on the third floor. He was proud. Also, never allowed me out of sight again. Little did I know, back then, that each episode of reckless bravery, while met with a sense of acknowledgement and even cheering for my accomplishments, would slowly and steadily result in further and further confinement. I soon learned that few things scare overbearing parents more than a child with the courage to explore their boundaries, and while I was educated to believe I was capable of anything, better than anyone, I would soon be allowed to do nothing but being a quiet, isolated perfect daughter.