Imagine waking up at ten years old with huge boobs. Go ahead, imagine it.
Imagine how awkward it feels to be the only person in a non-training bra at school. Sports are harder to play. You dread wearing a bathing suit. And, worst of all, literally everyone talks to your chest before you’ve properly hit puberty.
You have the visual in your mind? Great. Welcome to my life experience.
For my fellow chesty friends, you don’t have to imagine because you – like I – have lived it.
For the longest time, I wanted to change. There always seemed to be a better-looking version of me just out of reach. Admittedly I’ve had body dysmorphia since shortly before the breasts came, around nine years old. What that amounted to was a persistent nag of self-hatred. To add insult to injury, I kind of grew up in the fashion and entertainment world, often visiting the sets of fashion shoots with perfectly waifish models or movie sets with perfectly size 4 actresses. Hating myself was encoded into my emotional DNA.
And then my body had the nerve to sprout the most intense pair of knockers known to man. The gumption! THE GALL! The day I woke up with boobs, the week of training bra usage that followed, and the shift to a B cup before starting my period at 14, that was the beginning of my body hell.
I’ve said things about myself to others – men and women alike – such as, “Hey, my eyes are up here, pal!”
That sounds dramatic. But no, “body hell” is not an exaggeration. I felt weighed down, literally and figuratively. To say nothing of my emotional state. And that feeling of being weighed down, crushed under the weight of my own chest, only got worse as I aged.
I’ve had people say things to me like:
“You’ve got some tig ol’ biddies, girl!”
“You do have some knockers on you.”
“Sorry I grazed your boobs. It’s impossible not to!”
“I am so glad my tits aren’t as big as yours. I’d hate that.”
“It’s TT Jocey with the big boobies!”
I’ve said things about myself to others – men and women alike – such as, “Hey, my eyes are up here, pal!”
That’s not to say that I haven’t had fun with it. I do have a sense of humor. I would give myself nicknames and have inside jokes with friends. I’d call myself “Titania” (after the Duff beer model from The Simpsons). I dubbed myself “Aurora Boobrealis” after attending a drag show and being amazed enough by a queen and her stage name to steal it. I dubbed my chest “The Bosom of Comfort” because I understood, intrinsically, that my boobs were not for my happiness but for others – a place to lay one’s head and be relieved, comforted, made comfortable. Mine were community boobs, and I was friggin’ Mother Teresa.
Aging, while a beautiful process, made things worse. As I began to gain weight from stress, grief and the existential dread of back-to-back unprecedented crises, my boobs gained weight, too. Eventually they outpaced me. Imagine one day you’re a substantial yet perky 38DD, then years later you wake up one day at 42G. JUST IMAGINE IT!
Here I was, in my mid to late 30s, with cups that more than runneth over. My neck hurt, my back was a wreck. When I got out of the shower, the towel wouldn’t fully close. I avoided mirrors like the plague. I just couldn’t stand the sight of myself. My body and soul were weighed down. If you were in my shoes (read: cup size), you’d be wasting away in depression, too. What was I going to do about it?
Chop ‘em off is what! After decades of wanting a reduction, I made the decision to finally do it. The months leading up to my surgery were electric. I was excited, scared, jazzed and terrified all at once. How were they going to look? How small could we go? Would I be happy with the results? Would I be happy with myself?? The mysteries fueled me. I didn’t have the answers, but I was certain that once it was done, a new book of my life could begin. Not a new chapter, a new book. This surgery was going to be the turning point of all turning points. And I was beyond ready.
Smash cut to me, post-surgery. I woke up in my recovery room. I was still groggy, but I looked down at my chest and…she was different. The twins were DIFFERENT. Smaller, tiny even. It felt as if I were there again: my hopeful, idealistic self I thought I’d lost along the way. She was in there, all along, like the tiniest Russian nesting doll hiding within. The me inside me.
To say I’m over the moon is a vast understatement. I can now see my lower body when I look down. The towel fully closes. I happily and proudly look at myself in the mirror, often. I still have physical flaws, imperfections. But none of that matters anymore. I feel powerful, stronger, better.
…I’m free. I’m no longer oppressed and weighed down. I’m light as a feather. That’s no small thing.
It’s not overselling it to say I’m the happiest I’ve ever been with myself. Said a different way: I’m the happiest I’ve ever been, ever, in the skin I’m in. Not just because aesthetically I’m now closer to my ideal. But also because I’m free. I’m no longer oppressed and weighed down. I’m light as a feather. That’s no small thing.
As I began to re-enter the world post-reduction, my best friend texted me to cheer me on:
“Have a great first day back, my tiny-tittied titan!”
I’m thrilled to say that’s who I am now, a tiny-tittied titan. Can’t wait for you to meet the new me.
x, Jocelyn J
P.S. I want to say a huge thank you to all my friends, family and loved ones who supported me so fiercely before and after my surgery.
Thanks to my BFF for dropping everything to come take care of me. I’ve been complaining about my body to you since we were 12, and you’re still here. And double thanks for the title of this post. Grateful for you to the max. You’re so almighty.
Thanks also to my many special loves for having my back, thanks for encouraging me, thanks for the myriad of gifts and care packages, thanks for checking on the girls and wanting to be kept, ahem, abreast of the situation as I healed. I’ve never felt more loved and cared for in my life.
You are amazing, beautiful , sweet girl, my baby - I love your heart!