Cemetery Review #3

Here we are, a third cemetery review. This time, I've got two from Manchester, New Hampshire and one from Alburg, Vermont. Enjoy!

1.Bush Cemetery, Alburg, Vermont
Bush cemetery is a very small cemetery off the highway, outside the small farming town of Alburg, Vermont. It's surrounded by fields, and maybe a farm or two. It is fairly close to the Canadian border, so you often see Border Control cruisers sitting in it's tiny little parking area. It is surrounded by a low iron fence in the front, and a chicken wire fence around the back and the sides.
Despite its size, Bush cemetery is still active, at least it was when I last visited it in 2010. The oldest gravestone I could find was from 1786, so I have reason to believe that it has been active since the late 18th century. Most of the graves date from the 19th century.
Being a small cemetery, you will not find any impressive mausoleums or statuary. The most impressive grave belongs to a young man who died during the Civil War. His pink granite monument, topped with a flag draped urn, is easily the largest stone in the entire cemetery.
There is a good variety of monuments to see. There are some slate monuments from the early 19th century, carved with willows and urns. Some of these very tall. There are plenty of Victorian marble gravestones carved with flowers, wreaths and clasped hands. There are a few family stones, and a good amount of new granite ones.
The cemetery itself is in rather good condition. The grounds are very well kept, but there are a few damaged stones, mostly in the front. Whether this damage is caused by nature or vandalism, I cannot tell.
There are a few graves that stood out to me. One of them is a heart-breaking homemade monument dedicated to a little boy who died before his 2nd birthday. It appears to be made from a bulletin board, and is often decorated with lanterns, balloons, toys and flowers. I noticed a grave from the 1920's painted silver, a group of family graves from the early 19th century, surrounded by very fragrant roses and a grave made of marble and iron. I also saw a family plot where almost all their children, and the father seemed to die at a relatively young age. Of course, I wondered if tuberculosis was involved.
Some of the people buried in Bush cemetery have their photos on display at the town's little Civil War museum in the New England Via Vermont gift shop. It was very interesting seeing the museum, and then going to the cemetery to find their graves.
I don't think Bush cemetery is haunted. While I have had feelings of being watched, I have never outright experienced anything paranormal.
All in all, Bush Cemetery is a very pleasant little place to see if you're interested in cemeteries, Civil War history, and Vermont history. As always, if you choose to visit, please be respectful.

2. Manchester Hebrew Cemetery, Manchester, New Hampshire.
Hebrew cemetery is small, and appears to contains multiple Jewish cemeteries moved onto one plot of land. My reasoning for this theory, is that during my visit, I saw several small small granite plaques bearing the names of different cemeteries. It is still an active cemetery, many beautiful and heartfelt monuments. The oldest stones appear to be from the late 19th century. Some of them are entirely in Hebrew.
The grounds are extremely well kept, and I only saw a few broken stones in the back. When I visited, there were several newly dug graves. The soil is very sandy, unlike Pine Grove. I can't tell you how this affects burial.
There were a lot of monuments with verses from the old testament, loving epitaphs and photos. The best monument I saw was one belonging to an old woman that said: "You are visiting, this is my home. Please do not touch my monument". Getting scolded by a Jewish grandma from beyond the grave!
There were a lot of identical monuments, and a lot of monuments were decorated with stones, which is a Jewish tradition. Some graves even proclaimed that the deceased was a Holocaust survivor.
One interesting thing I noticed was that the walkways were lined with stone plaques bearing the names of important people from the old testament.
The cemetery was did not appear to be haunted. If it was, however, then the spiritual residents did not bother me. If anything, I felt welcome in there, more welcome than I've felt in some Christian cemeteries.
Hebrew cemetery is a very beautiful, interesting cemetery. It tells you a lot about a very ancient, and very wonderful culture, filled with resilience and faith. I can't wait to go back.

3. St. Augustin's Cemetery, Manchester, New Hampshire
This medium sized Catholic cemetery is right next toe Manchester Hebrew. They are separated by a chain link fence. The earliest burials appear to have taken place in the 19th century. It is still active, and like MHC, had recent graves displaying sandy soil.
The cemetery is in great condition. Very few broken or damaged stones, and the grounds are well-maintained.
Most of the graves belong to French Canadian families, though some Irish are interred there. There are a few very large and impressive monuments, with statues and crosses. There are lots of monuments with photos of the deceased and very interesting carvings. There are also a lot of flat iron grave markers in one section of the cemetery. This are all decorated with flowers and lanterns. Some belong to war veterans, and some do not. I am very curious about this part of the cemetery and would like to know more about it.
The creepiest part of St Augustin's was the 'Baby' section. This was a plot of land, in a shady corner, where every single grave belong to a baby or a toddler. Their markers were all tiny little squares of stone, some with carvings some without. Some of the babies were very very young. The creepiest parts of this experience was nearly stepping on a newly dug dead baby grave, belong to an infant who had died very recently. This part of the cemetery was very sad and scary.
This cemetery did not feel haunted. Even though I got a lot of sad feelings in the Baby Section, I did not feel threatened at all in this cemetery.
In conclusion, St. Augustin's is a very interesting cemetery with lots of heartfelt and gorgeous monuments. Some may think that the gold lettering and weeping Jesuses might come off as a little gaudy, but that's all the fun of being French-Canadian.

Shameful Scars Part 2: The Struggle Continues

Last year, when I wrote about my history of self-harm, I said I was never going to do it again, and I never wanted to do it again. I unintentionally lied. I can't predict the future, so little did I know that I'd scratch myself up again on several occasions. Little did I know that drumming wouldn't cure me completely of this urge to punish and scourge myself. Little did I know.

I did it last night, and I've done it on several occasions in the past year. The reasons stay the same, I'm hurt, and angry and I want to punish myself for being hurt and angry. I want to punish myself for being me. Because in that moment, I hate myself so much, I want to suffer and I want to die. Because in that moment, I finally see what others see, an ugly, awkward weirdo, who is ultimately unloved, and will eventually be abandoned by all her friends.

Maybe in a day or two, these feelings will go away. Maybe by tomorrow I'll feel good and pretty again. But right now, all I can think about is taking my Swiss army knife and carving myself up like a Christmas ham. I feel alone, and I feel unwanted, and I don't even want to say why or how these feelings happened, because I'm afraid if I do everyone will laugh at me. And that maybe if people see this words, they'll think I'm a self-pitying loser, and not a person in pain. Maybe that's the truth. Maybe I am just a self-pitying loser.

Everyone tells me to stop self-harming. As if just scolding me like a bad puppy will make it go away. No one goes to an alcoholic, and just says "Stop drinking, bad lush! Bad!".
Just telling me to stop, or telling me how bad it is isn't going to cure me. Therapy and medications only do so much. The Drum? Who cares? Nobody takes it seriously, nobody takes what I do seriously. So I can sing a couple of pretty Native American songs? In this society, I'm not doing anything meaningful. I'm just trying to keep a dying culture alive.

So here it is. No optimism. I'm a cutter, and I'll always be a cutter. There's no fucking magic spell I can wave that'll make all my pain and problems go away. I don't know why I keep forgetting that.

Continuation of memoirs?

One spring three years ago, I found myself in a nostalgic mood for a school trip I had been on the year before. I decided the best way to express these feelings on this blog, by writing an account of the trip the band and choir took to Hershey Park. I had only meant it to be one post, but, I decided, in the interest of capturing every detail, to space out the story into parts. It took me a little while to write this, but I did it. And I thought that would be the end of it. I thought there wouldn't be anymore memoirs.

But as usual, I was wrong. That summer, after deciding to make a trip to The Great Escape with a friend, I began to feel pangs of nostalgia. This time, these feelings were directed towards my very first visit to The Great Escape, exactly ten years before. So, I decided to write about that, and with that informed my scant amount of followers that these 'little memoirs' would occur occasionally.

Again, I was wrong. I'd already decided to write about my trip with Acacia, not long after the adventure was over. This endeavor took me much longer to complete than either of the first two memoirs. It became self-indulgent, extravagant and florid with pointless details.

After 'The Adventures of Fox and Squirrel' was finished, I was bored. I was still ripe with nostalgia, but couldn't think of any other 'adventures' to write about. So I started excessively editing all three of this ridiculous 'memoirs', fixing mistakes, adding things, taking them out and rewording things to make them easier to understand. It took me some time, but I had fun doing it. But still, the feelings of nostalgia persisted.

When I found out that my Aunt Jenny was having her vows renewed, and the day before the ceremony my Uncle Russel would be taking me to the Great Escape. I already knew that I would be blogging not only about my excursion to the amusement park, but about the entire weekend. In a moment of madness, I decided that each day of that weekend would be a separate memoir unto itself. Friday would cover the trip there, Saturday would cover my trip to the Greats Escape, and Sunday would cover the Vow Renewal ceremony. I had intended to make a fourth 'volume' to cover the ride home, but decided that would be a step too much.

I write the first volume and the second volume with little trouble. But by the time I got to writing about Sunday, my interest in writing memoirs had suddenly flagged. I tried, but only got two entries in. Then I gave up on writing memoirs, in favor of better writing ideas. I still wanted to finish the Sunday Volume though, and refused to start another one of these accursed self-indulgent blogs until I had finished it. But frankly I don't want to finish it, it seems irrelevant now.

But I beg to ask this question. Do I want to write another memoir in the future? I'm going to Canobie Lake park this year, do  I want to cover that? And why do I only write about amusement parks? And furthermore, will deciding to write about this upcoming trip taint the fun by giving me high expectations. Will it make any fun I have less genuine?

I still have to think about this. But for now, my xanax is kicking in and I need to sleep.

Dickhats, Angsty Poetry, Jesu Complex, what what?

So here we are. I haven't posted here in months. Between recovering from surgery, moving, getting mugged and all the general stress that life brings, I've been just a wee bit busy. Nor have I been in much of a mood to write, and what I do write, is either angst-ridden poetry, or stuff I'm saving for The Book I Want Published.

So what am I thinking about? What am I reading? What am I going to do with this tiny corner of the internet that no one seems to notice?

Fuck if I know. It irritates me, that pretentious dickhats like my ex-boyfriend get all these followers, when all he does is talk utter nonsense about liberal politics. Frankly, hyper-focusing on politics is a little bit irritating. It's like, OK, Bryan, we get it, you think Republicans are basically Nazis, and that Obama has no balls, and that bunch of hipsters in the street with signs are going to change America. OK 'Neo', we get it. You're a victim in this dystopian nightmare known as America.You're going to save us all, in your magical leather trench coat and uber hip sunglasses, but we're all stupid sheeple who reject our savior. Huh, that sounds awfully familiar. Getting a bit of a Jesus Complex? 'Cause if you're Jesus, then I'm White Buffalo Woman.

Dude, call me when you drum at the JFK Library in Boston, and you're in their archives as a Native American Drummer. Call me when you've written a song to sing with the drum (you don't play the drum, it is a living entity, the heartbeat of the people) and that you're going to be singing it at powwows and it'll be on Voice of United Spirit's next album.

I'm too distracted to really write about anything else, so meh. My next entry will be about whether or not I choose to continue writing 'personal memoirs' on this blog. I'm sure you're all so excited you could piss your pants.

And in Hindsight...

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.

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.

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.