I never asked for big boobs.
In fact, I never wanted any boobs.
I can remember sitting in the auditorium, in second grade, listening to the guest speaker talking to us about the changes our bodies would be making, and suppressing anxiety-induced vomit.
It’s not that I have a problem with boobs, or that I wanted to be a boy. I don’t and I didn’t. I actually really like boobs on other people (I’m not even opposed to man boobs), and I remember thinking boys had it so much easier than us girls. I just didn’t want boobs of my own.
There’s so much pressure that goes along with boobs. Suddenly being noticed by boys, being expected to have a perfect rack, being held responsible because they’re too big, or too small, or misshapen, or uneven, or…who needs that? So I thought it better to just not grow boobs at all. Remain flat-chested like my male peers and escape all the societal ideology that was very prevalent when I was in elementary school (and still is today).
So you can imagine my disappointment when my body just went ahead and grew them anyway. And you can understand why I was horrified when I was in a C cup by third grade. And you can probably empathize with my need to wear baggy clothes, and tight fitting bras that constricted my steadily growing mammaries…that is, until I realized duct tape worked so much better.
I’ve even considered a mastectomy. This is how much I dislike having boobs of my own. I think (and M insists) the better option is to work through this shit and get the fuck over it.
Thing is, there’s more to it, these days, than there was back when I was going through puberty. I mean, having these things grow out of my chest without my permission was bad enough. But then, it seemed like from that point forward they were always being grabbed without my permission. By friends, family members, strangers on the street, my rapists. One of my friends accidentally set my boob on fire once. I was clothed, unharmed, and he also put it out, but what the actual fuck, y’all?!
I’ve been fretting over it for weeks. For what ever reason, my brain has chosen now to FREAK THE FUCK OUT over my boobs being touched. M is a serious boob man, in that he is constantly all over them. No kids in the house + naked slave = lots of groping. And I used to like it.
Lately, though, I get all sorts of freaked out and fight the urge (and often lose) to push his hands away. I stiffen up, and my stomach flips. And it’s just my husband’s hands on my tits. It’s the most natural thing in the world. What the fuck is wrong with me?
We’re both really confused. He’s really hurt. I’ve had minor issues while we were together in the past, but never like this. Neither of us quite gets why it’s happening now rather than, you know, almost eleven years ago when I got out of the abusive relationship. Or twelve years ago while I was still being abused. Or the first time someone I trusted touched me inappropriately.
Though I guess the answer to that is that it did. Before I met M, I was never comfortable having sex with my shirt off unless I was wasted. I always pushed my ex’s hands away from my chest. And no one runs away or attempts suicide as many times as I have without some sort of trauma.
Once upon a time, I had this switch. I guess it’s a form of dissociation. I could just flip my emotions on and off at will. I suppose if I tried hard enough, I could find it again. But I don’t want to. I want to feel. I want to heal. No matter how difficult it is.
But god damn, is it difficult.