![]() I have considered the tiny scars, and people have shown me their own – little trees, little lollipops – around the nipples. ![]() I have fixated on the unlikelihood of being able to breastfeed post-surgery. I have wondered how I could possibly go the necessary amount of time recuperating. I have admired before-and-after pictures and been troubled by them. I could not tell you the number of hours I’ve spent at my computer looking up reduction surgeries. And so I have thought of my tits, since that time, as my tits, because it’s a word I like. And much like when I realised that I hated being called “Christie” and started going by my mother’s nickname for me, “CJ”, I also, at some point, realised that the indignity of using a word I hated for a part of my own body was a problem within my control to remedy. ![]() The future was a set of double-D tits I have hated since the day they arrived.īreasts was never a word that worked for me. I knew this was the age when you could start becoming a version of your future adult self, and this was the version I wanted to be. In these reveries, I was running through the tall meadow grasses of my green yard where wild turkeys noisily exploded from their cover, and I was wearing my favourite shirt with the burgundy suns bleach-drizzled across it and it lay completely flat across my chest and I wore no bra and I was barefoot and I could move so fast. B ack when I first got my tits, in the fifth grade, I had these ecstatic daydreams in which they were gone.
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