published in 2014 on my tumblr
I know that virtually every human being that walked this earth since self-awareness is in trend has probably had some sort of issue with the shell they carry around. No one is ever fast, beautiful, tall, short, slim, strong enough, everyone has had the wrong type of hair or color of eyes at some point. What might have been an issue of survival or mating once, is now a major source of emotional distress and anxiety more than anything else. It seems that the more science and evolution free us from the constraints of environment, the more chains we lay around our own mind, and gods, do we like to pull them tight.
I can’t remember the last time I was happy with my body. Probably at some point before my teens, that is to say before puberty hit, hormones took over (and never quite relinquished that control – so sorry to break the news, brain) and generally messed up my life and my views on myself, life, the universe and everything. And getting to 42 will probably not solve anything.
I have at some point in my teens very seriously informed my dad that I am sorry he wanted a daughter, but as far as I am concerned, he donated the wrong chromosome to the cause. I’ve never felt particularly girly. I’ve always played with my brother’s toy cars and a little stuffed pony while my dolls lay in a corner gathering dust. I can’t really complain about gender being reinforced with me, I was pretty much left to whatever made me happy and in the end it proved to be scribbling, coloring and lego, so that was pretty neutral. My old granny was pretty much the only person insisting that I should wear dresses while I was 10 or 12, and since that time it has only ever happened three times – on two of the occasions a really short skirt and a Mickey Mouse tennis dress were completed by tall boots – it was in a fit of admiration for punk, I think. I hate clothes shopping, I wear make up maybe once or twice a year and then it’s usually just a smear of smokey grey on my lids. I have no maternal instinct to speak of (in fact, I find babies pretty repulsive) and I’d much rather spend my old days in the company of a grumpy dog than that of ungrateful children or grandchildren.
Not that I am terribly frustrated about being a girl, mind you. I wouldn’t go as far as surgery to change it, though had I had known earlier in my life and had the means, maybe I’d be happier now. But it’s not like this female body is going out of its way to make me happy either.
It is probably too much information, but who cares – if there is a PMS syndrome on some list somewhere, I have probably checked that box at some point in time. At some points it was so bad that I used it as a curse on people I particularly loathed: that they might be incarnated as women if they weren’t already and have the PMS I do.
A former boyfriend once expressed his lack of comprehension regarding my dislike for my breasts. The sentence was along the lines of “if I had a pair of breasts like that, I’d sit at home all day to play with them”. My reply was that if I had a cock, I’d probably do much the same thing. For your information, big tits are cumbersome, heavy and at times painful. And that is just the physical aspect of it. Finding a bra, a fitting t-shirt (one that doesn’t have shoulders hanging down because it’s two sizes bigger to actually fit over my boobs), a winter jacket that doesn’t make me look like the Michelin mascott is a nightmare beyond the one given by my regular plus size. I can’t run, not only because it looks ridiculous, but because it hurts. Add to that the back pains that set in a couple of months ago.
So, dear body, I’ve had it with you. For one, you are going back in shape. What was done once, can be done again and well, if I have to suffer because of you, we’ll go biblical on this – an eye for an eye. And secondly… unless some drastic change of mind happens somehow (like illumination or alien mind control), the boobs are coming off. By knife. While I might take the awkwardness and sometimes humiliation you cause (I am pretty good at self-suggestion, so I can counter that well enough to be a functional individual), I refuse to take the pain. Not anymore.
So… that concludes the probably most revealing (or second most revealing) thing I wrote anywhere on the interwebs.
