I bet everyone will read this blog because of the title. Admit it. Boobs (even just the word) hold a strange power in our society. I don’t like the word. I prefer Bazoombas. In Junior High I named mine Misha and Yosha, after the hunters in Peter and the Wolf. I don’t know. I was 12.
When I was 4 or so I remember sucking in my stomach until the bottom of my ribcage poked out. I thought that was where my breasts would be. It looked weird. I didn’t like it. I had no interest in ever obtaining such ghastly things, so I decided I wouldn’t grow them.
I. Am. Brilliant.
When I was 9 my flat-chested life plan was shattered. It was summer. I was playing soccer in my neighbor’s yard. He kicked a soccer ball and I skillfully stopped it with my chest (as I had done many times before). For those of you who don’t know, growing breasts is PAINFUL and getting hit in the chest is the worst. Movies and public service announcements had taught me that horrible chest pain = certain death. I ran home, convinced something was terribly wrong with me. I couldn’t find my mom, so I wrapped toilet paper around my chest many times and prayed for God to preserve my young life. Which He did. When I realized I wasn’t dying I mourned the loss of my sunken chest and avoided the neighbors until . . . well, always.
A few days later I was the reluctant owner of several new bras. All white. All boring. All insanely itchy. On their maiden voyage I walked around with my shirt tucked under the elastic because it was SO itchy. And HOT. I was miserable. I resented my bras and the things that made me wear them. I hated those bras. I needed no further proof that breasts were terrible things that did not deserve to be dressed up or comfortable. I LONGED for my retired cotton undershirts and the lost childhood they represented.
About a month later I started 5th grade. I was wearing my bras like a pro at this point (no shirt tucking necessary). A boy in my class said,
“HEY! Are you wearing a bra!?”
Apparently one of my straps was showing. Nothing in my life had prepared me for such a terrible question. So I lied.
“No! Of course it’s not a bra!”
He then asked,
“Oh, do you just wear that so guys will like you?”
I muttered something incoherent and looked everywhere but at the boy.
Apparently a bra was connected to my likability. I found this very troubling.
I’ve had negative experiences since then, but these all happened within a month of each other. This was just enough time for me to realize that having breasts was not good and I would feel dirty and objectified for the rest of forever.
Today I had a goal. It’s a weird goal. It’s a goal I wouldn’t normally share because I’m kind of afraid my grandparents or my mom will read it. Or my old Sunday School teachers . . . but I’m trying to be honest and kill my shame monster, so here it goes.
November 28, 2012 Goal: Embrace Bazoombas
I don’t mean that literally, of course. That would be weird.
I am cursed (depending on who you ask or how you look at it) with a “womanly” figure. In high school I accepted that I was built that way. I didn’t know by starving myself my butt and hips and chest would magically disappear. I didn’t learn that until later; and oh goodness it made me happy.
Now that I’m restoring weight, Misha and Yosha are coming back with a vengeance. I starved them, and they are punishing me by hoarding every ounce of fat I consume. The change is probably not noticeable to others, but I’m really struggling to accept them. I’m pretty sure I’m no longer sinkable . . .
Anorexic Camilla had an “unattractive and skeletal” body.
Anorexic Camilla did not get ogled by men.
Anorexic Camilla was not sexually desirable.
Healthy Camilla had her boobs “honked” when she was 13.
Healthy Camilla had a hard time finding clothes that didn’t make her look whorish.
Healthy Camilla thought sexuality was the only thing she had to offer.
Healthy Camilla had a body that was more desired/admired by men.
I don’t like this healthier body.
This is the body that was abused. This body “is naturally a very sexy girl” (even when I don’t want to be). This is the body that elicits “subtle” glances.
This is the body that makes me want to yell,
“HEY, MY FACE IS ABOUT 6 INCHES NORTH OF THERE.”
This is the body that does not feel like my own. This is the body my Ex exposed to the world online. This is the body that feels owned by whoever wants it. This is the body that makes me feel uninteresting and powerless outside of my sexuality. This is the body I have learned to hate.
Today I felt so disgusting I asked to go to my room and be alone. I felt dirty and disgusting. I felt exposed. I felt like I couldn’t get away from stares, and that everyone was thinking “look at that whore.” It was a terrible (albeit illogical) feeling; but very real. I felt so much shame in those moments I didn’t want to move or open my eyes or be seen. I was like the three-year-old who believes closing your eyes makes you invisible.
Right now invisibility would be awesome.