There’s no actual ode, because I can’t write poetry.
I’ve been on the waiting list to see a plastic surgeon for about a year now to see about a breast reduction. It looks like I’ll get in around January-March.
I’m terrified, excited, scared, panic-ridden, and joyous about this decision. But, my doctor, my husband, my bio father’s wife, my BFF all agree I need to get this done. I’m just...scared.
I have a vague memory of not having breasts. I have never gone though the “when will my breasts come in” phase. Mine were in full bloom long before I even cared about breasts. Large breasts have been a mixed blessing for me. They are the first thing people notice about me. They are often the first thing near-strangers mention about me. They were the only reasons boys liked me for a long time. A lot of my identity has been tied up with these giant things strapped to my chest.
And now, I want to take that away.
What will I be afterwards? Average. Normal. Invisible.
What if I hate my body afterwards? What if I develop self-hatred toward a body I have finally accepted? What happens if people hate my body? What happens when my personal self-image and self-worth is no longer tied up in my breasts?
How can I even pick out new breasts for myself, when I have such a distorted idea of what normal breasts look like? Nearly all breasts look small to me. What I consider flat chested is, apparently, normal to everyone else. What I consider a B cup is a D to everyone else.
I want to sit up straight for the first time since I was a single digit age. I want to be able to walk without pain. I want to wear a bra that doesn’t hurt. I want to wear a bra the way all of those “proper bra” things say you should. I want to wear a bra where the underwire doesn’t leave sores on the sides of my breasts because there are no bras that properly fit me. I want to wear clothes that don’t hang off me. I want to wear a backpack that doesn’t leave “chub rub” on the sides of my breasts. I don’t want sores under and between my breasts anymore from sweat and rubbing. I’d like the first couple layers of skin under my breasts to finally heal. I want the numb spots in my back to go away.
I want to live without constant discomfort and pain.
I’m afraid about how the pain relief will work. Codeine, morphine, and the like doesn’t work for me. I once chewed through a week’s worth of percocet in two days because they weren’t working. All I got for my trouble was itchy feet and hands, and no pain relief. I had morphine once. Broke out in horrible hives. No pain relief. Whatever they gave me for the hives knocked me out cold. Morphine didn’t.
What happens if I have panic attacks? What happens if I wake up during surgery, like I have done before more than once?
But I also want to wear a halter dress, something I’ve never been able to wear because the neck pain is too much. I want to wear a bikini top. Just once. Or to wear a shirt with a build in bra and not break the elastic while wearing a bra.
I looked horrible in my wedding dress, but I couldn’t find anything that fit. I took it off 20 minutes after I arrived at the ceremony - and wore jeans. Yes, it was a casual wedding, but I didn’t even get to wear a dress I liked on me. The dress was gorgeous...just horrible on me.
I want to be able to wear more than men’s xl tshirts and hoodies. I don’t want to wear shapewear under my bras just so that I can fit into a sweater. I want to wear a dress with spaghetti straps.
I need this done. For my health, my body, for me. I need this done. But, I cannot deny how scared and worried I am. And, yes, it’s wrong to have one’s self-worth tied up into something as stupid as tits, but I have. Right or wrong, I have. And it will be hard to work past that.
This post was brought to you by honesty, a lack of caffeine, and a snoring corgi.