For most of my life, I've envied no one. As a young girl, I was the daring one of my friends who jumped into the middle of action without thinking twice of the consequences. I was comfortable around boys and boyfriends, was free thinking, of average height, thin, strong, thick haired, well dressed. My body, from the outside perspective was petite yet provocative; 5'3", 120 lbs with 32 DD breast.
I not only liked who I was, I loved myself and my life. Except on occasion, when my mature body coupled with my sense of confidence evoked a strong sense of lust from older men, lust that I was too young to understand and ill-prepared to handle. My trusting, independent mind could at once be considered a gift of maturity and potential for heartache. The attention from boys and men took its toll on my sense of purpose as a young lady. While giddy girlfriends prepared for a night out by stuffing bras and gossiping about boys from our study hall, I was deep in my closet juggling two distinct selves. The first, who’s instinct it was to wear out a compression bra under a t-shirt, and the other who was beginning to believe it was a better move to choose the low cut halter top that needed, and garnered, constant attention. I had come to expect the regular club bouncer would never once glance at my fake ID. He busied his eyes with soft roundness of my tits, which teased and taunted in the halter. On more than one occasion, after hours of guzzling cheap beer, I came to feel I owed him something.
I suppose I imagined my teenage breasts had found purpose after tormenting me through middle school. Recreational sports had become a thing of the past before ever reaching high school. The last time I remember handling a ball, I was thirteen and playing in a girls basketball league for the YWCA. The girls on my team wouldn't recall me wearing two sports bras simultaneously to prevent my breasts from swinging directionless because I came to the locker room already in uniform. They would have thought I was sitting on the sideline recovering from defensive tactics, not because my adult sized jugs were so sore from continuously being flung, smashed into and flattened, that I was near tears. On the ride home from what I knew would be my last game, I cried silently in the back seat knowing my newly formed boobs were too much a distraction from the game to ever play sports well again.
I paced the gynecologist's office just after my nineteenth birthday pleading for a referral to a plastic surgeon who would give me the green light for a breast reduction. The Doctor did her best to persuade me I was blessed to be so well endowed and reluctantly gave me the referral I desired.
I spent the weeks leading up my appointment compiling edited and re-edited lists of every possible reason I could conceive of why my breasts were a nuisance and possible danger to my health. But before presenting my data to the surgeon, I threw myself into the arms of this stranger, buried my face into her lab coat lapel, sobbed and begged for her to take them.
The insurance company responded to our case within a week, the answer was no.
I grew into a woman, lost baby fat and gained hips, began to use my sexuality as a tool of persuasion. During an internship, I was sent to interview a local artist, and though I had done a fair share of research on his work and personal history—prepared lead questions and formed a connection through daily emails—I fell back on a low cut shirt and flirtation as insurance to make our time together as advantageous as possible.
I would be remiss not to mention, during this fragile period of entering adulthood, the man who would soon become my husband knew my intentions of forming relationships was not a threat even if I did not, and loved me without judgement, but I had lost my self love.
Later that year Matt and I founded a creative studio and I realized I could no longer rely on the primitive desires of men to gain clients. I channeled my former self, hid my money makers behind button-ups and pull-overs, found again my assertiveness—and clientele looking me in the eye. I let myself be overtaken by a new sort of confidence in honing my expertise in selling Matt's illustration work.
As our wedding approached and it was time to choose a dress, I began again to value other areas of my body. I applauded myself for running every other day to quiet my mind, admired my toned and tan legs in the mirror, focused on tightening my ass. And after, as we flipped through our wedding photos, I concentrated on facial expressions and overall atmosphere.
Time passed, our son began to grow in my belly and I relished my melon sized protrusion, never once restraining myself during a meal or worrying about post-partum muffin top. I loved pregnancy. Of course I knew there would be excess weight to lose once my son was born, I expected a need for more routine physical exertion than I was accustomed to, was sure I would shed the pounds without resistance—and I did. Mostly.
Just a few weeks after he was born, as my stomach shrank and my hips narrowed, I sunk into a deep seeded depression, blaming my mood swings and general emotional distance from my family on the difficulty of breast feeding. But every time his sweet lips were close to my naked breast, resentment appeared. I lied to myself, visited lactation consultants, pointed a finger at lack of latching, low milk supply, sleepness nights and for many months denied the resentment was a result of my now sized 34 H/I breasts always needing to be contorted so that my hungry boy could find the nipple in a mountain of flesh.
My disproportioned body image was not in my head. Intending an industry joke about the effects of Photoshopping, a friend edited a photograph of Matt and I from the summer before so that my pregnant belly was placed on Matt, and I was once again slim waisted. He left intact my mountainous boobs which solicited comments suggesting this photo was true to my current physical appearance. My breasts never deflated after breast feeding and my ego had.
In the following months I hunched over, used my baby to conceal my torso and searched desperately for clothing that would both hide my body and still be appropriate for a twenty-something year old.
During a transitional week—filing paperwork for an audit and weaning myself off of being a full time Mom—a wave of knowing washed over me. It was time to do something more proactive if I ever hoped to find myself.
With Matt's encouragement, fully expecting to pay for surgery out of pocket even if it meant staying lean on extracurricular activities, I returned to my gynecologist expecting to demand a referral to a plastic surgeon. She handed me two slips for specialists considered the best in the area without hesitation and within weeks I found an understanding, scrupulous man willing fight with my insurance company to cover the cost of the procedure.
It was a painful ordeal, took what felt like months to heal, and of course I have scars. But these scars are precious to me. They empower me to project my mind and not my body. These are a daily reminder of how far I have to come to accept myself.
Laura Duquette
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