No, I wasn’t big by the time I hit twelve. Instead, due to sufficient height and a slender body, friends suggested I should pursue a modelling career. Our house, however, was big. Big by comparison. To our previous house, which in actual fact was a church of modern architecture. Yes, an actual church. Some years of my life were spent in the basement of a church. This house though was bigger than a basement. Especially, since it had three floors. No garden. The two staircases and three balconies more than made up for it. From them one could clearly see that, compared to the surrounding houses, ours was of the exact same size. Modern day architecture of a different kind. Democratic. Rows and rows of democracy.
At school I was big. Big in popularity, that is. Other students either wanted to be me or be with me. Small step from being a big girl to being head girl. Being cool took up most of my time, so being home became secondary to it. Sometimes, the coolness of the house served as a great scenery for inviting one of my many friends. Sleepovers on the balcony, jumping off the bunk bed to Michael Jacksons’ Speed Demon or brushing Barbie’s hair until the cows came home.
Yes, those days were before the rape, the eating disorders, the many therapists and psychoanalysts and doctors and grim days and gruesome nights. Before the drinking and drugs and obsessions and stalking and smoking until my lungs gave out. Before the paranoias and the voices. Yes, those days, when I avoided any-, and everyone. When my face was no longer that of a winner in life. No longer one who will make it big. No, big had to make way for something: Inconspicuous Deep.