Jungian Archetypes and Womanhood in Horror Cinema
I can’t remember a time where I didn’t fear my body. From a young age, I was taught to be hyperconscious of how I positioned myself physically. I made sure my legs were always pressed together tight or crossed when seated. I tested the appropriateness of my outfits by raising my arms to see if my shirts would expose my belly, or bending over to check if my undergarments would remain fully covered by my dress. By the time I got my period, I noticed my father would wince when I needed him to pick up tampons at the store, and he would clam up if I told him I had cramps. I was scared of being overexposed: of the length of my skirt being the reason I’d get a write up at school. I was scared of being seen as disgusting: of having to put my bloodstained bedsheets in the hamper for my father to wash.
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