I forgot to wear my boob to school one morning. I was 13.
I thought I might actually die. I was begging the Angel of the Lord to just come snatch me out of Grade 9 drama class, or set me on fire, anything but this.
Thank the Gods for baggy sweatshirts, the uniform of those suffering justifiable body dysmorphia.
I had ‘special’ bras with a pocket for my silicone prosthesis, usually worn by those who have had mastectomies. Something interrupted my morning routine and I forgot to take my boob out of her box and tuck it into my bra. My reaction? Well I immediately ran to the bathroom and did my best with some toilet paper. And, until the day I had my first surgery, I slept in my bra, with my fake boob in place for 2 years, straight. Never forgot it again.
Just before this Christmas past I spoke to High School Sweetheart, during our 3 week ‘break up/ goodbye’ the subject of his torment arose. It’s the closest I have ever heard him come to tears, because he was crying. He couldn’t even say the word jellyboob as he was struggling through an apology. I assured him he was forgiven, I was over it. And I am, over what he called me. He has redeemed himself a million times since then.
I am not over not having a tit.
Or I wasn’t then. Fuck, I wasn’t even over it on Tuesday when I published the prequel to this article.
Baby steps? Ain’t nobody got time for that. How about giant leaps for Sarah-kind.
“If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t know or care about any of that.
You’re Sarah, the girl I grew up with. Not a freak.”
(message from a man I have known since I was 7 years old)
So close. But not quite.
My girl Ally was over that night, we talked about it. Her 2 cents? “it’s just a tit”.
My response? Go back and tell 13-16 year old me that, convince her it’s okay. Tell her she doesn’t have to hide, that it’s okay to talk about it, that it’s something she can’t control and she’s going to be alright. Drag Jeff back with you to tell her she would be worshiped for her weird 1000 years ago. She might listen to the handsome man.
It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. It’s what I know. That I am not whole.
But I am?
But I’m not.
Yes, you are.
I fucked up. It’s a thing I do.
Men I have been with read this blog.
Case and point, the “dear old friend” from the last post.
He and I were talking about AHS Freak Show, Bell’s Palsy and ancient Rome.
My boob came up. He hasn’t seen me naked in 15 years and remembers me being all brave and stoic about it. My memory paints him as kind and understanding, he still is.
Then I went on to quote shitty ex saying I couldn’t be picky about the men I date, and I agreed.
That is only one side of the coin. I don’t agree, mostly.
I AM picky.
I also expect them to recoil in horror. All of them, all of the time.
When they don’t, it is such a relief it clouds my future judgement of their behaviour. After all they are tolerating the monstrosity that I am.
Second case and second point. I continued to date the douchebag who said that for another 6 months or more AFTER he said it.
No one has ever said Ew.
And yet EVERY FUCKING TIME my bra hits the floor I brace for it.
I am a stripper, my bra has hit the floor a lot.
I realized it’s because I think Ew. Every day.
I have been on a journey as of late. Something big is going to happen and I am preparing for it, like going to the moon.
I have been exploring everything I am, was and have ever done. Figuring out why and forgiving myself.
How do I forgive myself for something that happened in utero. Poland Anomaly is a congenital birth defect. It’s not like it was my choice. Even if I had lopped of a tit in my previous life as an Amazon Princess (Wonder Woman).
I started the last article by stating, as fact, that I chose this body. I did, I believe this.
I also stated had I been normal I could have ruled the world. Also has a lot of truth in it.
But I would have been an asshole.
I do not have a conceited bone in my body. Every compliment I get is weighed and measured and it doesn’t stick unless I feel I have earned it. I came by my bravery, acceptance, nurturing nature, my ability to love unconditionally and a grand sense of humility the only way I should have. The hard way.
The same way that carves rivers into solid rock and writes braille on my psyche in scars. This IS me, it’s what I am made of.
But I am not whole, I never was.
But you are, you always were.
It’s not about being loved or lovable in spite of my deformity.
That is no different than the men who said ‘it doesn’t bother me’. Like they had a right to be bothered.
I also don’t want my accomplishments to be padded with “in spite of her affliction” she did the thing.
I didn’t overcome anything that I didn’t do to myself. Mostly.
“When is a monster not a monster?
Oh, when you love it.” Caitlyn Siehl http://alonesomes.tumblr.com/
Follow my logic.
This thing I am missing IS a part of the whole. It has shaped everything about me, everything I ever did, ever felt and what I am now. Which is kinda awesome, so…
I am whole.
I am worth loving.