After venting my spleen in my last bitter blog entry, I talked to my father and then my sister. In their wisdom, they both helped me put things in perspective.
I have no reason to feel any envy for Sophie's seemingly good fortune. Yes, she won a million dollars, but at what cost? To get that money, she sacrificed her dignity to the altar of reality TV. All she did was prove that in modern society, people will go to ridiculous and obscene lengths to obtain material wealth.
As I spoke to my family, I realize that my dignity and pride, all that I really have, do not have a price tag. That I would rather be poor, I would rather be what I am now, than sell myself out in exchange for some lousy dollars, which after taxes (unless of course, Sophie decided to commit the white collar crime of tax evasion) will be a mere pittance.
So she has some money. What is money but a pile of paper? Some numbers? It will bring her no joy, no nirvana. Material goods provide a temporary pleasure, but they cannot beat the euphoria that comes with drumming at a powwow, and watching people dance to the songs that you sing. She will never experience the Eagle Dance, the Hoop Dance or even a simple Candy Dance. She will never dive into the river after a good powwow, or sit in a tipi on a rainy night. She will never get to drink Sumac tea with a clan chief, or participate in a sacred water ceremony.
I am truly blessed.
In this year alone, I have reaped so much good fortune of my own, of a sort entirely different from monetary gain. Sophie may have money, may have 15 minutes of fame, but she certainly can't say that's she's part of something sacred, that she's helping keep a culture alive. If anything, she's now a part of the machine that destroys culture.
Money isn't forever, and neither is fame. On a grander scale, it means absolutely nothing,
So here it is. I feel much better now. If I weren't recovering from my breast reduction, I'd whip out hand drum, and sing White Sky. Oh fuck it, I'll sing White Sky anyway, drum or no drum.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
A Word About Sophie Clarke
I went to school with Survivor Winner, Sophie Clarke. And let me tell you, it was no picnic. She was obnoxious. At least from my point of view. I had a locker near her, and she used to simultaneously antagonize me, and make strange attempts at being my friend. Pretty much, she liked fucking with my head. When I went through my punk rock phase, she'd gleefully mock me, claiming that she was more punk than me, knowing that it would aggravate me. She would tell me that if I dyed my hair pink it would 'look gross, like period blood,' because of the natural dark shade of my hair (did she not know that you have to bleach dark hair before it can be dyed a wild color?). She claimed she would dye her hair pink too, and it would look better. She made fun of my crush on Elijah Wood, constantly asking if the picture of him of Frodo, that was displayed in my Return of the King planner was in fact, a girl. Most annoying, and most disgusting of all, when I came out as being Wiccan, she made fun of me for weeks, asking me if I was like 'Sabrina the Teenage Witch,'. Those are the moments I remember most. That and giving her a swift kick to the shins for being an annoying bint. In all the years I knew her, she proved herself to be an ignorant, intolerant, obnoxious two-faced little bitch.
Her annoying, childish behavior led to my intense dislike of her. I had no idea why she constantly acted like this. It was like she couldn't decide whether to bully me, or be my friend. My mother used to tell me that it seemed like Sophie had some bizarre lesbian crush on me. She stared at me enough times. You couldn't call her teasing bullying, it was more irritating than hurtful. Perhaps if I wasn't Autistic, her behavior would have been easier to ignore, and I could have simply laughed at her. But the fact is, people with Asperger's or NLD have thin skins, and are easily provoked.
When I moved, she kept sending me so many Facebook and Myspace requests that I had to block her. Did she ever figure out my vitriol? She probably has, and attributes it to 'jealousy'. Sophie, I'm not jealous of YOU as a person. I wouldn't want to be you for five minutes. I'm jealous of your good luck, and that's about it. Other than that, I think I'm pretty damn awesome.
What else do I remember of her? She was in the National Honor Society. She was in the NHS, and I recall overhearing her discussing giving exam answers to another student. That's right. She was a cheater. She was a cheater, an antagonistic wannabe bully, and her sisters used to try and get teachers fired, simply for their amusement. She was an archetypal spoiled rich kid, who had everything handed to her.
And now she's won a million dollars.
Apparently she said "I'm part of the 1% now". Well good for you, Sophie. You're part of the 1% of over privileged, corrupt bourgeoisie that are currently public enemy #1. Congratulations. The rest of the country, that 99% are screaming for your blood, as they take to the streets. Vive la sans-culottes! I certainly hope you were joking when you made this comment.
Some people will comment on this blog, Sophie's ass-kissing hangers-ons and fans. They will insult me, in defense of their queen, like the good little white knights they are. They will say "Oh you're just jealous".
That's right. I am. I am jealous that this person, who lacks decent character, this utterly fake and obnoxious person, who has had everything handed to her, has a million dollars, while each month, my family and I, as well as so many other Americans, struggle to make ends meet.
But that's just about all I'm jealous of, when it comes to Sophie Clarke. I don't want her life, I don't want to be her. From now on, people will only want to be around her for her money. At least when you're poor, you know who your true friends are.
Just once in my life, I'd like to see the underdog win. Someone who truly has been in the bottom of the pit. Someone who knows about foodstamps, welfare, social workers and SSI. Someone who knows all about the constant never-ending bullshit that comes with poverty.
Why do the people who already have everything, get more?
And that's it. My rant is done. I will say no more of this tiresome bint, who went from that obnoxious girl who vaguely resembles a monkey, to a reality star, who seems to have finally grown into her looks. Good for you, I wish you the joy of it.
Her annoying, childish behavior led to my intense dislike of her. I had no idea why she constantly acted like this. It was like she couldn't decide whether to bully me, or be my friend. My mother used to tell me that it seemed like Sophie had some bizarre lesbian crush on me. She stared at me enough times. You couldn't call her teasing bullying, it was more irritating than hurtful. Perhaps if I wasn't Autistic, her behavior would have been easier to ignore, and I could have simply laughed at her. But the fact is, people with Asperger's or NLD have thin skins, and are easily provoked.
When I moved, she kept sending me so many Facebook and Myspace requests that I had to block her. Did she ever figure out my vitriol? She probably has, and attributes it to 'jealousy'. Sophie, I'm not jealous of YOU as a person. I wouldn't want to be you for five minutes. I'm jealous of your good luck, and that's about it. Other than that, I think I'm pretty damn awesome.
What else do I remember of her? She was in the National Honor Society. She was in the NHS, and I recall overhearing her discussing giving exam answers to another student. That's right. She was a cheater. She was a cheater, an antagonistic wannabe bully, and her sisters used to try and get teachers fired, simply for their amusement. She was an archetypal spoiled rich kid, who had everything handed to her.
And now she's won a million dollars.
Apparently she said "I'm part of the 1% now". Well good for you, Sophie. You're part of the 1% of over privileged, corrupt bourgeoisie that are currently public enemy #1. Congratulations. The rest of the country, that 99% are screaming for your blood, as they take to the streets. Vive la sans-culottes! I certainly hope you were joking when you made this comment.
Some people will comment on this blog, Sophie's ass-kissing hangers-ons and fans. They will insult me, in defense of their queen, like the good little white knights they are. They will say "Oh you're just jealous".
That's right. I am. I am jealous that this person, who lacks decent character, this utterly fake and obnoxious person, who has had everything handed to her, has a million dollars, while each month, my family and I, as well as so many other Americans, struggle to make ends meet.
But that's just about all I'm jealous of, when it comes to Sophie Clarke. I don't want her life, I don't want to be her. From now on, people will only want to be around her for her money. At least when you're poor, you know who your true friends are.
Just once in my life, I'd like to see the underdog win. Someone who truly has been in the bottom of the pit. Someone who knows about foodstamps, welfare, social workers and SSI. Someone who knows all about the constant never-ending bullshit that comes with poverty.
Why do the people who already have everything, get more?
And that's it. My rant is done. I will say no more of this tiresome bint, who went from that obnoxious girl who vaguely resembles a monkey, to a reality star, who seems to have finally grown into her looks. Good for you, I wish you the joy of it.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
It was the Breast of Times, it was the Worst of Times
Breasts. Tits. Boobs. Hooters. Knockers. Funbags. Whatever you call them, society is obsessed with them. Everyone, male or female, gay or straight, young or old, seems to have some strange fascination with them. But I am not writing this blog to discuss and analyze society's obsession with breasts. No, I've got another, more personal topic related to breasts.
Tomorrow, I am getting a breast reduction. I will be going down from a mammoth H cup to a livable, decent C cup. And so I've decided to write, perhaps self-indulgently about the journey my tits and I have been on, for you see, we are bosom buddies, and have always had a complicated relationship...
When I was a child, I couldn't wait to start growing breasts, and I didn't have to wait very long. I first started to bud when I was eight. I remember looking in a bathroom mirror in the elementary school bathroom, on the eve of my ninth birthday, and seeing, for the first time, two distinct nubs under my purple t-shirt. I was excited. I squealed in joy. I was getting breasts! Soon, I'd get pubic hair, and then my period...puberty!
I asked for a training bra in fourth grade. It seemed like the right thing to do. I was so pleased with the onset of puberty, and was certain that it would be fun. I got my white cotton training bra on Easter, promptly put it on, and HATED it. It was so uncomfortable! Ridiculously so! I refused to wear, even though I had asked for it. I tried, I tried to wear it, but I just couldn't do it. I never really wore it, and eventually, when I was twelve, gave it to a friend who seemed to need it more.
Even as my breasts grew and grew, I still refused to wear a bra. In fifth grade, I had an embarrassing moment, when I bent down in a loose tank top, and the boy I'd had a crush on saw my bare breast. I was humiliated, and I remember him whispering with his friends, feverishly.
When I was in sixth grade, I was a B cup, and still refused to wear a bra. I got picked on by the other girls. They especially complained if my t-shirt had a hole in it, and I had a wardrobe malfunction. They were so offended, why I do not know. Prudishness, passed on by Puritanical ancestors? Latent homophobia? Jealousy? Even the school therapist told me to conform and wear a bra. I didn't want to. They were uncomfortable, and I had a lot of issues with sensory and textures at the time. Stupid Autism.
Finally, by 7th grade, I surrendered, and starting wearing bras. One the first day, I borrowed one of my mother's, and when some of the girl's saw the strap slip out from my shirt, they giggled and said retarded things like "Sara's wearing a hot pink bra". Really? Really? It was gray. Gray. I'm aware they were fucking with me, but that doesn't make it any less annoying.
While I wore bras, I still had days were I went bra-less, and always, took them off the minute I got home. I mostly wore sports bras, and soft cups, but I tried underwire now and again.
My juvenile breasts attracted attention. Since sixth grade, there had always been rumors that I stuffed my bra. I was offended. My breasts were the real thing, and I always told people so.
I'm sure the boys in my class noticed them, I later found out that one of my nicknames, 'Tree', not only referenced my bushy hair, but also my breasts, which were abundant, while the rest of me remained slender. I was shaped like a tree, essentially. Big foliage, skinny trunk.
By eighth grade, I'd gone up another cup size. C cup. I was used to wearing bras now, but found them horribly uncomfortable, especially underwires. I used to tuck the fabric of my shirt under the wires, to provide a cushion. It annoyed one of my classmates, Teal, but then again, she seemed rather annoyed by a lot of my quirks, such as running on my toes, and writing smutty romance stories at the tender age of 14.
By eighth grade, the stuffing rumors had also stopped (though a girl once asked me at a Halloween party if I stuffed and when I told her no, she shut the hell up). No one has since questioned the integrity of my tits. At least not to my face.
Back in the 7th grade, I was reading a Seventeen Magazine article about a girl who had a breast reduction. They didn't disclose her cup size, but the pictures showed that she was very large. I remember thinking 'That will never happen to me'. I think I challenged the gods, with that statement.
By the end of 9th grade I was a D cup, and my mother and sister began to suggest the possibility of a reduction. I was offended by this. I loved that I had naturally large breasts, even if I couldn't wear cute bikinis and swimsuits. Even if the kids at school were put off by the size of my chest, and the costumers in school plays always tried to hide my chest with frumpy costumes. (I always managed to fight them, and find something that highlighted my figure. I knew women paid lots of money to have boobs like mine, and that I was gifted. My friend Nicki often called them The Tatas, and her fascination with them amused me. To quote something we once wrote in a story "You got more than a handful there, cause those are some huge tatas!"
But there were still doubts. Sometimes, I'd look at my naked body in the mirror, and be disgusted. The other girls were smaller, perkier, mine, had weight, they didn't stand proud and tall, and too me, they looked saggy. My mother tried to reassure me, tell me that one day I'd find someone who would love my body just as it was.
Before we moved to Bellows Falls, I went up another cup size. DD. In my new home, my breast attracted more attention than in Willsboro. I got groped by a boy for the first time, though he didn't ask permission first. My breast ceased to be mine somehow, for it seemed friends were always poking them. I got ogled at Anime cons. I began to deflect my self-consciousness by making jokes about them, discussing them candidly. This backfired on me, because eventually I got called out and insulted by someone, who remains nameless due to the peace I've made with them. They called my breasts 'saggy mammaries' and accused me of being obsessed with them. It's not that I was obsessed, it's just that I'd hyper-focused. I do that. A lot. This person ripped apart my character in other ways, but let us not dwell on the past. I often wonder why I receive such negative attention for my breasts. It's not like I went out and got silicone implants, it's not like I wanted to have big breasts. Well, I did when I was a little girl, but what did I know then?
In 2007, I met Scott at Anime Boston. He seemed fascinated with my breasts. But then again, most guys were. Most girls were too. My friend Kate was President of the Boobs for awhile, and would often grab them or rest her head on them.
As our long-distance relationship progressed though, he began to say things that bothered me. He would say he preferred small breasts, that he liked them perky. I told him he's bet on the wrong horse, natural DD's aren't 'perky'. He said as long as I could see the nipple, I was fine. I began to dread undressing for him.
But the first time he saw my naked breasts, he was fascinated by them. He seemed to fall in love with them. He became obsessed with them, said praised them. My self-esteem was considerably bolstered by this. My mother's prophecy had come true. I had found a man who loved my body as it was. At least it seemed so.
During my senior year, I started taking the pill, and my breasts began to balloon, and I gained weight. I blamed stress, my grandmother was dying. I kept buying new bras, but none of them fit. I began to feel horrible about myself.
I went to Lane Bryant that spring, got measured. The lady did a double take. She said I was an H cup. AN H?! My aunt was that size after she'd had a baby. I think I began to cry. I felt despair creep. And in that little dressing room, I decided, that I would finally get a breast reduction.
When I told Scott, he was excited that my breasts were so big. He told me I had 'hentai boobs'. That they were hot. He had a fetish for them, playing with them, and insisting on tit-related sexual practices that I'd rather not describe. I began to feel that he only loved my boobs and not me. I began to feel that people only saw my breasts and not me. As years passed, I began to feel resentful, all the jokes, all the stares. People acted like my breasts were public property. Just a few months ago, a friend lifted them up, without even asking 'to see how much they weighed'. My best friend told me they looked weird and scary. I hated them. I hated them so much. All the jokes I made, couldn't ward off my pain, anger and humiliation.
And yet, a sliver of pride remained. After all, some women pay thousands of dollars for such large tits. You see porns stars with K cups, but they pay MONEY for those, they're fake.
But pride didn't make my back stop hurting, didn't make shopping less humiliating. I HAD to get surgery and fix this shit.
I went to a plastic surgeon in Springfield in spring of 2009. I was hopeful. He said I was a prime candidate, took pictures for insurance reasons. But he didn't explain the procedure very well and treated me like I was stupid. I asked if I would still be able to breast feed. He said, no he was going to do a free nipple graft, it was easier than a pedicle. He would remove my entire nipple, and put me at risk of infection and nerve damage and hurt my chances of breast feeding my kids, just because he was too lazy to do a pedicle! Not only that, he didn't even really try that hard with my insurance. Medicaid denied me. No proof of rash or strap mark. I got proof, but he wouldn't take it. He was a lousy surgeon and in hindsight, I'm glad it's not that buffoon cutting me up. I'd rather have a squirrel chew my tits off than let that misogynist, outdated sawbones lay a hand on me. I even wrote a poem about all this crap.
Another year or two passed. In 2011 I went to Dr. Ridgeway at Dartmouth-Hitchcock. A woman. She listened. She looked at my breasts and decided that I really needed the surgery. Hope. Again, hope.
But insurance changes prevented my surgery, and I waited another 8 or 9 months. In October, I went back to the doctor, and with my new insurance, I found out that they could just do the surgery, and then I had to wait for my insurance to approve it. We made the date, I signed the papers, and it was done. December 12th was the big day.
For the past two months, it's been easier dealing with my breasts. Sometimes, I think I'm going to miss being this big, after all, in a way it set me apart from the pack, but then I remind myself of all the pain, and misery I've endured. I think of all the things I'll be able to do. I'll shawl dance, drum better, run and jump and go clubbing without fear of embarrassment. I'm tired of being the girl with big tits. I'm tired of men only liking me for my 'big ol' titties' as some cretins like to call them. I worry a little, that I won't be as popular or something, but I was never popular anyway. I worry about negative changes, but I can't turn back now I suppose.
My tits and I have a complicated relationship. We love each other, and yet all we do is hurt each other. Sometimes it feels like they've become sentient beings at that I'm hurting them by doing this. Maybe it's time to get these puppies under control.
Tomorrow, I am getting a breast reduction. I will be going down from a mammoth H cup to a livable, decent C cup. And so I've decided to write, perhaps self-indulgently about the journey my tits and I have been on, for you see, we are bosom buddies, and have always had a complicated relationship...
When I was a child, I couldn't wait to start growing breasts, and I didn't have to wait very long. I first started to bud when I was eight. I remember looking in a bathroom mirror in the elementary school bathroom, on the eve of my ninth birthday, and seeing, for the first time, two distinct nubs under my purple t-shirt. I was excited. I squealed in joy. I was getting breasts! Soon, I'd get pubic hair, and then my period...puberty!
I asked for a training bra in fourth grade. It seemed like the right thing to do. I was so pleased with the onset of puberty, and was certain that it would be fun. I got my white cotton training bra on Easter, promptly put it on, and HATED it. It was so uncomfortable! Ridiculously so! I refused to wear, even though I had asked for it. I tried, I tried to wear it, but I just couldn't do it. I never really wore it, and eventually, when I was twelve, gave it to a friend who seemed to need it more.
Even as my breasts grew and grew, I still refused to wear a bra. In fifth grade, I had an embarrassing moment, when I bent down in a loose tank top, and the boy I'd had a crush on saw my bare breast. I was humiliated, and I remember him whispering with his friends, feverishly.
When I was in sixth grade, I was a B cup, and still refused to wear a bra. I got picked on by the other girls. They especially complained if my t-shirt had a hole in it, and I had a wardrobe malfunction. They were so offended, why I do not know. Prudishness, passed on by Puritanical ancestors? Latent homophobia? Jealousy? Even the school therapist told me to conform and wear a bra. I didn't want to. They were uncomfortable, and I had a lot of issues with sensory and textures at the time. Stupid Autism.
Finally, by 7th grade, I surrendered, and starting wearing bras. One the first day, I borrowed one of my mother's, and when some of the girl's saw the strap slip out from my shirt, they giggled and said retarded things like "Sara's wearing a hot pink bra". Really? Really? It was gray. Gray. I'm aware they were fucking with me, but that doesn't make it any less annoying.
While I wore bras, I still had days were I went bra-less, and always, took them off the minute I got home. I mostly wore sports bras, and soft cups, but I tried underwire now and again.
My juvenile breasts attracted attention. Since sixth grade, there had always been rumors that I stuffed my bra. I was offended. My breasts were the real thing, and I always told people so.
I'm sure the boys in my class noticed them, I later found out that one of my nicknames, 'Tree', not only referenced my bushy hair, but also my breasts, which were abundant, while the rest of me remained slender. I was shaped like a tree, essentially. Big foliage, skinny trunk.
By eighth grade, I'd gone up another cup size. C cup. I was used to wearing bras now, but found them horribly uncomfortable, especially underwires. I used to tuck the fabric of my shirt under the wires, to provide a cushion. It annoyed one of my classmates, Teal, but then again, she seemed rather annoyed by a lot of my quirks, such as running on my toes, and writing smutty romance stories at the tender age of 14.
By eighth grade, the stuffing rumors had also stopped (though a girl once asked me at a Halloween party if I stuffed and when I told her no, she shut the hell up). No one has since questioned the integrity of my tits. At least not to my face.
Back in the 7th grade, I was reading a Seventeen Magazine article about a girl who had a breast reduction. They didn't disclose her cup size, but the pictures showed that she was very large. I remember thinking 'That will never happen to me'. I think I challenged the gods, with that statement.
By the end of 9th grade I was a D cup, and my mother and sister began to suggest the possibility of a reduction. I was offended by this. I loved that I had naturally large breasts, even if I couldn't wear cute bikinis and swimsuits. Even if the kids at school were put off by the size of my chest, and the costumers in school plays always tried to hide my chest with frumpy costumes. (I always managed to fight them, and find something that highlighted my figure. I knew women paid lots of money to have boobs like mine, and that I was gifted. My friend Nicki often called them The Tatas, and her fascination with them amused me. To quote something we once wrote in a story "You got more than a handful there, cause those are some huge tatas!"
But there were still doubts. Sometimes, I'd look at my naked body in the mirror, and be disgusted. The other girls were smaller, perkier, mine, had weight, they didn't stand proud and tall, and too me, they looked saggy. My mother tried to reassure me, tell me that one day I'd find someone who would love my body just as it was.
Before we moved to Bellows Falls, I went up another cup size. DD. In my new home, my breast attracted more attention than in Willsboro. I got groped by a boy for the first time, though he didn't ask permission first. My breast ceased to be mine somehow, for it seemed friends were always poking them. I got ogled at Anime cons. I began to deflect my self-consciousness by making jokes about them, discussing them candidly. This backfired on me, because eventually I got called out and insulted by someone, who remains nameless due to the peace I've made with them. They called my breasts 'saggy mammaries' and accused me of being obsessed with them. It's not that I was obsessed, it's just that I'd hyper-focused. I do that. A lot. This person ripped apart my character in other ways, but let us not dwell on the past. I often wonder why I receive such negative attention for my breasts. It's not like I went out and got silicone implants, it's not like I wanted to have big breasts. Well, I did when I was a little girl, but what did I know then?
In 2007, I met Scott at Anime Boston. He seemed fascinated with my breasts. But then again, most guys were. Most girls were too. My friend Kate was President of the Boobs for awhile, and would often grab them or rest her head on them.
As our long-distance relationship progressed though, he began to say things that bothered me. He would say he preferred small breasts, that he liked them perky. I told him he's bet on the wrong horse, natural DD's aren't 'perky'. He said as long as I could see the nipple, I was fine. I began to dread undressing for him.
But the first time he saw my naked breasts, he was fascinated by them. He seemed to fall in love with them. He became obsessed with them, said praised them. My self-esteem was considerably bolstered by this. My mother's prophecy had come true. I had found a man who loved my body as it was. At least it seemed so.
During my senior year, I started taking the pill, and my breasts began to balloon, and I gained weight. I blamed stress, my grandmother was dying. I kept buying new bras, but none of them fit. I began to feel horrible about myself.
I went to Lane Bryant that spring, got measured. The lady did a double take. She said I was an H cup. AN H?! My aunt was that size after she'd had a baby. I think I began to cry. I felt despair creep. And in that little dressing room, I decided, that I would finally get a breast reduction.
When I told Scott, he was excited that my breasts were so big. He told me I had 'hentai boobs'. That they were hot. He had a fetish for them, playing with them, and insisting on tit-related sexual practices that I'd rather not describe. I began to feel that he only loved my boobs and not me. I began to feel that people only saw my breasts and not me. As years passed, I began to feel resentful, all the jokes, all the stares. People acted like my breasts were public property. Just a few months ago, a friend lifted them up, without even asking 'to see how much they weighed'. My best friend told me they looked weird and scary. I hated them. I hated them so much. All the jokes I made, couldn't ward off my pain, anger and humiliation.
And yet, a sliver of pride remained. After all, some women pay thousands of dollars for such large tits. You see porns stars with K cups, but they pay MONEY for those, they're fake.
But pride didn't make my back stop hurting, didn't make shopping less humiliating. I HAD to get surgery and fix this shit.
I went to a plastic surgeon in Springfield in spring of 2009. I was hopeful. He said I was a prime candidate, took pictures for insurance reasons. But he didn't explain the procedure very well and treated me like I was stupid. I asked if I would still be able to breast feed. He said, no he was going to do a free nipple graft, it was easier than a pedicle. He would remove my entire nipple, and put me at risk of infection and nerve damage and hurt my chances of breast feeding my kids, just because he was too lazy to do a pedicle! Not only that, he didn't even really try that hard with my insurance. Medicaid denied me. No proof of rash or strap mark. I got proof, but he wouldn't take it. He was a lousy surgeon and in hindsight, I'm glad it's not that buffoon cutting me up. I'd rather have a squirrel chew my tits off than let that misogynist, outdated sawbones lay a hand on me. I even wrote a poem about all this crap.
Another year or two passed. In 2011 I went to Dr. Ridgeway at Dartmouth-Hitchcock. A woman. She listened. She looked at my breasts and decided that I really needed the surgery. Hope. Again, hope.
But insurance changes prevented my surgery, and I waited another 8 or 9 months. In October, I went back to the doctor, and with my new insurance, I found out that they could just do the surgery, and then I had to wait for my insurance to approve it. We made the date, I signed the papers, and it was done. December 12th was the big day.
For the past two months, it's been easier dealing with my breasts. Sometimes, I think I'm going to miss being this big, after all, in a way it set me apart from the pack, but then I remind myself of all the pain, and misery I've endured. I think of all the things I'll be able to do. I'll shawl dance, drum better, run and jump and go clubbing without fear of embarrassment. I'm tired of being the girl with big tits. I'm tired of men only liking me for my 'big ol' titties' as some cretins like to call them. I worry a little, that I won't be as popular or something, but I was never popular anyway. I worry about negative changes, but I can't turn back now I suppose.
My tits and I have a complicated relationship. We love each other, and yet all we do is hurt each other. Sometimes it feels like they've become sentient beings at that I'm hurting them by doing this. Maybe it's time to get these puppies under control.
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