Ripples, Waves and Drowning in Tits

Cosmic energy like what we just experienced is manic, like the worm at the end of a bottle of tequila. We were already drunk and this took it next level.
Euphoric and intoxicating and absolutely leaves all emotions raw and exposed.
Then there is the hangover.

I have an eclipse hangover.

We were told to dig back through 2017 for lessons between the darkening of the moon and the sun.
But my lessons are always the same.

I do the same shit over and over.

Make someone into something they are not, and I end up like Ke$ha at the beginning of Prayin.

“Am I dead? Or is this one of those dreams? Those horrible dreams that seem like they last forever? If I am alive, why? Why? If there is a God or whatever, something, somewhere, why have I been abandoned by everyone and everything I’ve ever known? I’ve ever loved? Stranded. What is the lesson? What is the point? God, give me a sign, or I have to give up. I can’t do this anymore. Please just let me die. Being alive hurts too much.”

To clarify. I don’t want to die. But I don’t really want to live either.

My life is just a void now. Return of the Haboob.

I get up. I feel like shit. I try to keep going. But going to what? Back to the attic? Then what?

At least my sweatpants are there.

There are so many unknowns. More than those the plague has created, which was already a fucking lot.

At least in 2017 I was brave. Not anymore. Punch drunk and hand shy.

Frozen in fear now.

I wasn’t really dealing with what was vexing me.

I thought I was.

But the other day I had a 2 hour long text conversation with someone I have known since I was 14.
And some extra truth came busting out like the silicone in my tit.

It’s leeching into my body and making me hurt. Bad.

He originally messaged me regarding writing erotica. Then we spoke of his divorce and finally my tits.

I can’t imagine how that one simple seemingly insignificant thing could have such a staggeringly significant effect on a young girl’s psyche, and the ripple effects that could cause.

Ripples became waves and I am drowning here.

That is what is bothering me. And now my good tit hath betrayed me.
Et tu good tit?

Something is wrong with the other one too. Feels like an air bubble trapped behind it.

I have been dealing with this since before he and I met. I started seeing my reconstructive surgeon in the 8^th grade. I met Scott in grade 9 or 10.

My first surgery was a disaster, second also went badly.

3rd was great.

This was the 4th and they’re making me too sick to move.

It doesn’t matter if time has passed or the situation is different. 

I am still that girl.

I’m 15 years old waking up from surgery, in pain, hopes crushed, a more deformed tit than the nothing that I started with, bawling while my mother screams at me. I am giving myself pneumonia at Christmas because I didn’t want to go home and be resented or pitied.

Or I am 18 going through the same shit that happened at 15. With the same ugly results. T’was a blessing when that one broke.

Or I’m 35 sitting in a freezing barn 3 days after surgery. Crying and getting screamed at, then abandoned so my husband could go fuck someone else in my house. An hour later I have a coat full of baby goat. The goat’s foot hooked into the binding holding my boobs into place and pulled it loose. I didn’t care. I got the goat fed and settled in for the night and collapsed into a depression sleep without fixing my bandages and they have been crooked since. Her name is Layla and she still lives.

Or I’m 40 away from the farm, sitting in another surgeon’s office getting poked and prodded while he draws incision lines on my skin. He proposed a lot of incisions. I didn’t go back.

I’m not creating scenarios. I’m remembering what happened. 

The good news is, my friend is an incredible tattooer and if I cannot accept the scars that will come from getting these hideous things out and amended, there is another option.

I had another surgery when I was 19.

It went well. Like super awesome, non traumatic day surgery with really symmetrical results. It was the day before my birthday and I really pissed my parents off by going to the bar the next night.

Honestly? I felt fine. My pocket was well established, I had 3 stitches internal through an old scar. I didn’t drink at the time. I was sober from my 18^th Christmas until I was mid 20’s.

The same Christmas party that I learned I was a really good bartender, I also realized I was a really bad drunk. I threw up a lot, on my boss’s girlfriend’s shoes.

Out of all the things I had done drunk, and there were some stupid, violent, terrible things…that was the thing that stopped me. I loved my job, I needed it to exist. So, I quit doing the thing that might make me lose it.

Didn’t stop me from going to the bar.

I used to love to dance, on dance floors, at bars, sober even. I don’t anymore, the idea terrifies me, and I have no idea why.

Everything is terrifying me lately.

My girlfriend went online for me and looked at some reconstructive surgery results, post mastectomy etc. and said the results looked really promising.

I can’t look.

I have been under the knife and come out disappointed too many times. I can’t see myself in those women.

At least she acknowledged the difference between being excited about elective surgery and what I am going though now. Too many people think I should be happy, and I honestly can’t be.

Yes, there is a chance that everything will be great and obviously better than now.

But…

I am going on well over a year of sickness with no idea of the cause (until recently) and I have a 75% personal failure rate and the absolute bullshit clincher is, I didn’t even need these tits, all I really had to do was leave my shitty husband and put on a bit of weigh.

At least, after talking to Njava and Scott, I feel a little less alone. Mandabear is letting me stay with her while I recover. Giant will come check on me too. I have a contingency plan of sorts.

And the surgery itself and the physical part of the recovery isn’t even what is bothering me so much as who will I be if I can’t dance anymore?

What if I end up too scarred and hideous to work?

How will I get by without the job that has kept me safe and fed for 22 years?
Who will I even be?
Where will I go?

I already feel fundamentally unlovable, 36 years of tit issues and I have never figured it out.

None of this is getting answered any time soon. I won’t know until I know.

And I am guessing everything I ever wanted is on the other side of this fear.

---

Author’s note.
This is not a plastic surgery vanity thing and even if it was, that’s my business.
But, to clarify…
I have a congenital deformity called Poland’s Anomaly and have written several articles about it.
Just use the search bar at the top right of the blog’s main page or Google and type in Poland’s Anomaly.