I am mad at my breasts.
Not a funny “HAHA!” mad, but legitimately angered by their existence.
I used to enjoy them. They stayed up where they were supposed to, they balanced out my bottom half and they filled out dresses and t-shirts with ease.
I was measured again and guess what? I’m still (STILL!) a 34F. EFFFFFF.
That’s a big bra full of two big failures.
It’s as if they stayed the same size hoping it would mask the fact that they simply did not work.
If the loss of a breastfeeding relationship needs to be mourned I have reason to believe that I have reached the valley between anger and loneliness.
I’ve been unhappy with particular body parts in the past. My nose is a bit too big, my thighs a bit too meaty, my stomach a bit too soft, my skin a bit too pale. But none of these ever affected anything but my own selfish vanity. My nose sniffs, my thighs get me from point A to point B, my stomach carried my two babies and my skin, well. My skin keeps my guts in.
And it makes me really, really angry.
All they ever had to do in this life was feed a baby. Nothing else. (Although they did get my husband to notice me eleven years ago, even though he’ll deny it and claim it was my sparkling personality that caught his attention.)
They didn’t do their job.
They just sit here on my chest like two giant fleshy mistakes staring back at me everyday.
“YOU KNOW YOU GUYS FAILED RIGHT?” I want to scream at them. “YOU DON’T DESERVE GOOD BRAS AND SOFT FABRICS!”
It’s a really weird feeling. To feel utter disappointment and regret in a physical part of yourself. Like a bad tattoo you can’t undo. They will always be there reminding me of their failure. I’m not the one that failed…it was them, and yet they’re attached to me.
Other people may never understand the shame and anxiety these things cause me. But for now? It’s all I can feel when I look at them.