My Breasts and the World Around Them

"If you're not getting reconstruction, then you don't need a plastic surgeon," my surgeon said.

"Alright, but let me be clear," I said*, "deciding to 'stay flat' does not mean I don't care what my chest looks like. And if a plastic surgeon has something to offer in this regard, I would like to have them involved."

Ultimately, it doesn't seem like I'll need one. But I wanted to make sure my surgeon understood that by not wanting implants or reconstruction, I wasn't "giving up" on myself. I was giving up on the patriarchy. I loathe to think I'd deal with the pain of "expanders," and surgery to implant some saline filled sacks into my chest so I could look a certain way - for whom exactly?

If it were for me, if it were my "confidence," why would I need tits like that to feel good about myself?

I admit that my reaction to these ideas of reconstruction is such a visceral repulsion, that I feel compelled to examine my response.

I spent over 30 years of my life trying to meet other people's standards of success and beauty. I have a lot of anger around that lost time. I have a lot of hate towards the world that tried to bury everything about me that was perfect and precious, in the name of what they decided was so. Society, media, relatives. The shits they gave about me were completely self serving: Consumerism, appearances, having a scapegoat.

Society, media, relatives. I was able to serve them all well because I was pretty enough, compliant enough. I did my part in service of all those things, and the pain of it all was easy to ignore because I was just so good at it. The smallest steps in other directions were met with consequences that told me clearly to go back where I belong, and I regret that I was never strong enough to move forward anyway. I regret it with every part of me.

The idea of implants or reconstruction represents, for me, doubling down on a commitment to the lies of those things. And I have some fear, that if I do not comply, I'll be left to die, as useless to the powers I've served for so long.

Four years ago marked the beginning of the end of this time in my life, when I came out to myself about my sexuality, and as my last vestige of "normal" melted away, I realized that I can never win that game I was playing. I quit. And all this time, I've tried to learn about the person I am, if only I can peel away over 30 years of compulsive conformity, loneliness, and fear.

To build breasts onto my body for the sole purpose of appearances are based on values that are the antithesis to mine. I can say that now. Thank God I can say that now.

*I do actually talk to doctors that way. I recommend it.

Sensation, paralysis, mastectomies.

When my disabled son was born, and for many years afterwards, I would massage his legs and feet. I still do, sometimes.

He has no movement or sensation there. His sensation is spotty in his thighs, and decreases to nothing from his knees downward. But I massaged anyway, tenderly, with so much love and intention, as though telling his legs how much I love them, and, more than a little bit, hoping I could will some life into them.

But he never felt that. He couldn't feel it, and also, I was doing something he couldn't feel. I realize more recently that I was doing it for myself. All my tenderness and comfort was all about making myself feel better. There was not much giving going on there. I should have hugged him more, or massaged his back. But instead I focussed on my loss instead of his needs.

For three weeks now I've been living with the reality of an impending mastectomy. I knew there was no surgery that could make it look "right," but also, I've been thinking through ideas of body image, society's "normal, and my own relationship my body, gender, and society, for so many years now. If there was every a good time in my life to deal with such a drastic change in my body, it's now. I can do that.

When I thought about the impending loss, although I won't pretend I'm too body-positive and don't-give-a-shit what society thinks to have any insecurities about my appearance (98% about being naked around my partner), the majority of my grief over it is around my sensation.

I knew it would not be normal and there would be a major loss there. The doctor I spoke to yesterday confirmed, and was very clear about the different reactions some women have; the different ways they describe this loss. Like a gap in their torso.

So I think about hugging my children close to me and what that might be like soon. I think about how much I enjoy it now. And the feel of fabric and warmth. I think about this much more than how I'll look in clothes.

Bodies touching each other, skin to skin, is one of my favorite parts of sex-slash-cuddling. I've described this closeness as though one's soul pushes out through their pores to the other, and wraps around them. It's part of reaching out for this closeness that, actually, you can't have in this world, with physical bodies in the way. But using your body to get so close - that's what we have while we're here.

Will I know if she puts her hand on my heart? Will it comfort me if she does?