BC (before cancer), I was happy with my body. Sure, I was shaped like a mom, but I had a definitively feminine shape. I looked girly. I had D/DD breasts, contingent upon the bra and fit of said bra, but overall, I had no complaints. Sure, I'd have been happy to lose ten or fifteen pounds, my logic was if the husband had no complaints, then I didn't either.
AD (after diagnosis) and six months of chemo, I went to sleep in a hospital and magically woke up ten to twelve pounds lighter without breasts. I liked my breasts. I had no complaints about them. They had functioned fabulously well with feeding the three monkeys when they were babies.
And yet one of them betrayed me and tried to kill me. (A breast, not a monkey.)
Cancer fucking shattered me. There's no other word for it. Shattered. Mentally, emotionally, physically. It's such a mind fuck. I had to learn there was still a shard of me in here somewhere.
I read of people who are flatties or unis (Uniboobers, you know, single mastectomy people.) who are wrestling mentally with to wear or not to wear foobs (fake or faux boobs) or physically by actually wearing said foobs and trying to keep them in place.
Do what's comfortable for you. The first year after my bilateral mastectomy, I felt like a deformed freak. I fucking hated how I looked. Fucking. Hated. As in, yes, fucking hated.
The next year, I wound up acquiring foobs because an oncologist finally gave a damn and gave me a prescription for mastectomy bras and forms. Then I had the humiliating experience of going to get fitted for said stuff. Don't get me wrong, the fitter was absolutely amazing, an incredibly kind woman who was very patient with me while I sat there terrified of her, shaking and afraid to speak because I was so afraid of anything medical related. She managed to get me outfitted with what I needed, plus some sleeves for lymphedema.
I tried wearing my faux bra and foobs a few times. They were just not all that comfortable, even though they were fitted properly. You're probably thinking if they were fitted properly, there shouldn't have been a pain issue. Well, with the fucked up nerve damage from what was done to me surgically and the vile chemo, and the scar tissue, things just seemed to hit in all the wrong places. Then there's the whole issue of the fact that I'm concave on my upper chest, both sides. The foob forms are concave. In spite of the pockets in the mastectomy bra, there is unfilled space there. They don't stay in place. That's all there is to it.
So, I gave up after a few attempts to wear them. Then I tried again a few more times. Overly perky, properly shaped foobs screamed "FAKE!FAKE!FAKE!BOOBS!" and at my age, I don't need something that looks like I have the breasts of a twenty-four year old woman. Mentally, it made me feel strange to know that those pieces parts of me did NOT match the rest of me. I gave up, placed the foobs back into their boxes where they live and the bras are in a drawer which I rarely open because I don't need what's in there.
My attitude was I don't give a fuck if someone looks at me or not. It became an adventure going out and not caring what other people thought. I went down that road with the bald head--I didn't give a fuck what other people thought or even said. Well, if I could apply that don't give a fuck attitude with my lack of feminine shape, then I was going to go with that, and so I did.
I started wearing what I wanted when I wanted and I didn't and still don't care what people think and I do so in a confident manner.
People, breastless and unis, OWN IT! If you feel like you can go out and about without the hassle of foobs or a foob, and you mentally wrap your brain around that you CAN do this, you fucking do it and be proud! To hell with anyone else who doesn't like it. This is 2015, not 1915 where someone might be upset if you aren't shaped like everyone else.
(Of course as I'm working on this post, someone in a group got rather pissy about what I said about not giving a fuck about what other people think--or that's how it came across--and she said some people do care how they look.)
My perspective is this. If that works for you, fine. I've never been one to go along with what everyone else was doing, so this is my way of saying "Fuck off." to society.
I have owned my flatness and am so confident with it that people don't even notice I'm a flattie. And that is what my blog post is about.
Owning it.
When you own it, people perceive confidence and breasts, or a lack thereof or one or two, aren't even an issue. (Were breasts an issue before one or both of them were cut off? Of course not! People didn't give a fuck. They likely noticed you for being you, not your breasts!)
Do I hate how I look? Sure. I don't have a feminine shape, so I don't feel as girly, if that makes sense. I have twenty five pounds of steroid weight from being allergic to the chemo that won't go anywhere and I fucking hate it. I'm genuinely shaped like a pear. Seriously. I don't even know what size I wear on top because I wear tee shirts, and on bottom, I'm a size fourteen, disproportionately shaped now because of having no breasts. ZOMFG! There, I said it--now you know what size I am.
You know what? It doesn't matter. What matters is I learned I could develop confidence gradually by realizing that nobody noticed. Nobody noticed when I had breasts. Nobody notices now, unless the actual subject of breast cancer comes up.
Maybe this will help someone out there reading who has been dealing with the shit cancer hands people.
What helped me find that second shard of me was Firework by Katy Perry because it's such an awesome song. What helped me find another piece of me was learning the lyrics. And then singing along a little bit. And then singing a little bit more.
And a bit more until now, I crank that song and fucking belt it out, never mind the fact that I can't sing. Unexplicably, that song did help me gain some confidence about myself again, believe it or not. Maybe it will help you. And if you're having a particularly shitty day, please give it a listen, it might help you perk up a bit.
But for now, please go listen to it and maybe realize you can feel a little more comfortable without foobs and get a little confidence back like I did.
<3
AD (after diagnosis) and six months of chemo, I went to sleep in a hospital and magically woke up ten to twelve pounds lighter without breasts. I liked my breasts. I had no complaints about them. They had functioned fabulously well with feeding the three monkeys when they were babies.
And yet one of them betrayed me and tried to kill me. (A breast, not a monkey.)
Cancer fucking shattered me. There's no other word for it. Shattered. Mentally, emotionally, physically. It's such a mind fuck. I had to learn there was still a shard of me in here somewhere.
I read of people who are flatties or unis (Uniboobers, you know, single mastectomy people.) who are wrestling mentally with to wear or not to wear foobs (fake or faux boobs) or physically by actually wearing said foobs and trying to keep them in place.
Do what's comfortable for you. The first year after my bilateral mastectomy, I felt like a deformed freak. I fucking hated how I looked. Fucking. Hated. As in, yes, fucking hated.
The next year, I wound up acquiring foobs because an oncologist finally gave a damn and gave me a prescription for mastectomy bras and forms. Then I had the humiliating experience of going to get fitted for said stuff. Don't get me wrong, the fitter was absolutely amazing, an incredibly kind woman who was very patient with me while I sat there terrified of her, shaking and afraid to speak because I was so afraid of anything medical related. She managed to get me outfitted with what I needed, plus some sleeves for lymphedema.
I tried wearing my faux bra and foobs a few times. They were just not all that comfortable, even though they were fitted properly. You're probably thinking if they were fitted properly, there shouldn't have been a pain issue. Well, with the fucked up nerve damage from what was done to me surgically and the vile chemo, and the scar tissue, things just seemed to hit in all the wrong places. Then there's the whole issue of the fact that I'm concave on my upper chest, both sides. The foob forms are concave. In spite of the pockets in the mastectomy bra, there is unfilled space there. They don't stay in place. That's all there is to it.
So, I gave up after a few attempts to wear them. Then I tried again a few more times. Overly perky, properly shaped foobs screamed "FAKE!FAKE!FAKE!BOOBS!" and at my age, I don't need something that looks like I have the breasts of a twenty-four year old woman. Mentally, it made me feel strange to know that those pieces parts of me did NOT match the rest of me. I gave up, placed the foobs back into their boxes where they live and the bras are in a drawer which I rarely open because I don't need what's in there.
My attitude was I don't give a fuck if someone looks at me or not. It became an adventure going out and not caring what other people thought. I went down that road with the bald head--I didn't give a fuck what other people thought or even said. Well, if I could apply that don't give a fuck attitude with my lack of feminine shape, then I was going to go with that, and so I did.
I started wearing what I wanted when I wanted and I didn't and still don't care what people think and I do so in a confident manner.
People, breastless and unis, OWN IT! If you feel like you can go out and about without the hassle of foobs or a foob, and you mentally wrap your brain around that you CAN do this, you fucking do it and be proud! To hell with anyone else who doesn't like it. This is 2015, not 1915 where someone might be upset if you aren't shaped like everyone else.
(Of course as I'm working on this post, someone in a group got rather pissy about what I said about not giving a fuck about what other people think--or that's how it came across--and she said some people do care how they look.)
My perspective is this. If that works for you, fine. I've never been one to go along with what everyone else was doing, so this is my way of saying "Fuck off." to society.
I have owned my flatness and am so confident with it that people don't even notice I'm a flattie. And that is what my blog post is about.
Owning it.
When you own it, people perceive confidence and breasts, or a lack thereof or one or two, aren't even an issue. (Were breasts an issue before one or both of them were cut off? Of course not! People didn't give a fuck. They likely noticed you for being you, not your breasts!)
Do I hate how I look? Sure. I don't have a feminine shape, so I don't feel as girly, if that makes sense. I have twenty five pounds of steroid weight from being allergic to the chemo that won't go anywhere and I fucking hate it. I'm genuinely shaped like a pear. Seriously. I don't even know what size I wear on top because I wear tee shirts, and on bottom, I'm a size fourteen, disproportionately shaped now because of having no breasts. ZOMFG! There, I said it--now you know what size I am.
You know what? It doesn't matter. What matters is I learned I could develop confidence gradually by realizing that nobody noticed. Nobody noticed when I had breasts. Nobody notices now, unless the actual subject of breast cancer comes up.
Maybe this will help someone out there reading who has been dealing with the shit cancer hands people.
What helped me find that second shard of me was Firework by Katy Perry because it's such an awesome song. What helped me find another piece of me was learning the lyrics. And then singing along a little bit. And then singing a little bit more.
And a bit more until now, I crank that song and fucking belt it out, never mind the fact that I can't sing. Unexplicably, that song did help me gain some confidence about myself again, believe it or not. Maybe it will help you. And if you're having a particularly shitty day, please give it a listen, it might help you perk up a bit.
But for now, please go listen to it and maybe realize you can feel a little more comfortable without foobs and get a little confidence back like I did.
<3
at my age, I don't need something that looks like I have the breasts of a twenty-four year old woman. Mentally, it made me feel strange to know that those pieces parts of me did NOT match the rest of me.
ReplyDeleteTHANK YOU for writing an article I could never write! Your thoughts are so in line with mine!
I just love you so much!!! Your honesty, talent, confidence, and heart of gold. Your writing's so powerful I really jump up and down feeling like a weight's lifted off of me. You sing and speak your truth we're all here listening. ❤️
ReplyDeleteYou are so in tune with my thinking Kel!! I really don't give a flying fuck what anyone thinks anymore - I used to, I worried about every little thing(I had polio as a kid and have always felt self conscious about that!). Now I'm out there everyone, I'm me, I'm a cripple, I ride a mobility scooter(with Hell's Fairy emblazoned on the back...Along with two sugar skulls!) I use crutches which I have pimped, and to top it all I'm half flat because of cancer...Deal with it society!! I'm hoping to have my other breast amputated soon - hopefully I convinced the psychologist I actually know what I want, yes me, not what surgeons/society dictate!! I am emerging as a different person, I'm 62 and I'm sure gonna make the most of any time I have left...In style!! Thank you, thank you, thank you for a totally honest, telling it like it is, in all it's horror piece! Love ya lady! xx
ReplyDelete