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.