Page 50 of In For a Penny
Growing up, I was alwaystold no. Growing up, I was always told that I couldn’t do certain things or follow certain paths in life—that there were moreappropriatepaths in life for me, moresuitableones for women of my background. I constantly felt stifled and suffocated, put into a specific box when I didn’t just want to be different but wanted to see and experiment with multiple boxes. It felt like most of my time on earth was spent swimming upstream, trying to show people that I could achieve anything I wanted, whether they thought I couldn’t or shouldn’t.
You’re too young, too naive, too fat, not strong enough. A girl.
I grew up in a world where my family always supported me and my decisions—to an extent. Nothing besides eventually getting married to the right man was ever expected of me. Someone with money wouldn’t be enough. He would have to be from a good family, provide a stable home, and allow me to be a stay-at-home whatever-I-wanted.
Living a life of affluent leisure would have been great sometimes, but I wanted so much more for myself than what was expected. The notion of me achieving anything on my own—a business, a career, anything of substance—was consideredcute.“She’s brilliant, one of the smartest people you’ll ever meet,” they’d say. But I was meant to be completely useless—a vase, a receptacle, one of those beautiful blue-and-white ginger jars that you put as decoration but have no use for.
I had to be constantlyon,changing personalities based on what was expected of me in the situation. I was told I had to act a certain way, dress a certain way, and look a certain way to get what I wanted (i.e., what my family wanted for me). If I rebelled, there was hell to pay, whether it was in the form of verbal abuse from my grandmother or in the constant nagging and disappointed passive-aggressive remarks from other family members.
“Why do you alwaysneedto be different, Penny?”
“It’s different for you than for everyone else. You’re an immigrant. You have to be the best. You have to work the hardest to fit in.” I wasn’t allowed to stand out.
The pressure used to get to me, make me crack into a million little pieces. If I gained a little weight, I wouldn’t hear the end of it. “You’ve gained seven pounds since vacation started! No one is ever going to marry you now, Penny!” I would starve myself for weeks or go on brutal purges until you could count my ribs and see my hip bones again, just to silence the opinions of those around me.
Like a wild horse, they wanted to break me. They tried to mold me into what they wanted. So, what did I decide to do after sixteen years of arguing and rebelling and feeling like I would never, ever be good enough for my family unless I lived up to these standards? Standards that were impossible not because they were difficult to achieve but because it wasn’tme?
I played along. I pretended. I wore Brooks Brothers—a lot of it. I took a lot of psychological hits. I played along with their stupid fucking rules, all as a means of survival until the day I got to graduate high school and go away to college and just be myself for one goddamn minute of my fucking life.
And even then…I couldn’t escape my old life. It was still so ingrained in me that I continued holding myself back. I over-corrected in some things, like my wardrobe, and remained stagnant in other areas of my life, like being emotionally shut off. It was like I was lost, suddenly. Or maybe I was a shell of a person, and there was never anyone in there to begin with.
I remember, in my freshman year, my first serious boyfriend complained about me having a wall of ice up that would slam the brakes on any type of romantic or profound intimate moment we would share or he wouldtryto communicate. If he complimented me or said something sweet, I would yell, “Line!” and make a joke about him saying something tender just to get laid.
How fucked up is it that I couldn’t even hear him say how beautiful I looked without panicking or thinking he was lying because he had an ulterior motive? I was able to be physically intimate with him, but emotionally opening up had proven to be a massive undertaking.
I hurt him more times than I’d like to admit, so I started making a conscious effort to open myself up more. I began to let him in and tell him more about how my family made me feel like a failure sometimes or how I was feeling a bit lost. I talked about how I was still struggling with my eating disorder and how difficult it was to keep myself from wanting to throw up everything I ate. I thought I could trust this person with my feelings and that I could embrace his own for me.
I ended up being “too much,” I guess, since we ended the relationship once I started opening up about the more difficult things. I suppose he didn’t exactly realize what was going on in my life, and that was entirely my fault. I didn’t show him my true colors from the get-go. He didn’t get to kick the tires before signing up for the relationship.
Though he bailed because he couldn’t handle that shit—even though, as a partner, he should have been able to get me help, at least—I never for one second regret that relationship. It taught me to open myself up to someone but always have my guard up and protect myself, something that I had needed to survive my relationship—and ultimate breakup—with Austin.
It reminded me that boundaries and walls were up for a reason.
When I got to London, things changed, though. I felt stronger, more capable of handling emotional terrorism or attacks from others and even myself, at times. I felt like I had the chance tofucking finallyfind out who I was without any outside influence. No one to tell me how to act or what to do or what I should feel. I’m starting from scratch—for real this time.
London had already begun to transform me, and I had made a conscious decision, not so long ago, to continue on this journey of (sorry for sounding so trite here) self-discovery without letting anyone judge me or get in my way.
Penny Márquez is going to (conscientiously and responsibly) do whatever the hell she wants, and she’s never been happier.
So, when Josh told me I shouldn’t have had casual sex with Oliver, when he judged me and went thermonuclear overprotective, I lost it.Because I’ve promised myself not to let anyone tell me what to do or who I should be ever again—especially if they aren’t even part of my family. They do not get a say in what I do, who I am, or what I want to be.
I choose how to live my goddamn life.
Josh is wrong. I am not like “one of those girls”. I’m just me, and I am not broken.
Even if I were, I am not anyone’s to fix. I am my own problem, and I make my own choices, and that’s fine with me—even if I fuck up.
I stand by my decision to be who I want and do whatever I want, including my new friends-with-benefits arrangement.
So, even though Josh and I have become close friends and enjoy spending time together, this is further evidence that my wall always,always, ALWAYS need to remain up. I will not fall back into old habits of letting people tell me what is right or wrong just for fear of judgment.
I won’t fall back into old habits.
London Penny is already much more relaxed, and fun, andrealthan any other Penny of the past.
Therefore, no matter how many granola bars he’s given me or how sweet he’s been, if he can’t find a way to be supportive, Josh Fox can kindly go fuck himself.
