Theres something I have been wanting to talk about lately, but broaching the subject feels like more of a personal issue than I tend to display on this blog.
Feminists, body love activists, please take your seats, you may need to for this one.
I want to talk about my boobs. Yes, MY boobs. Theyre mine, but they arent "real."
Thats right, I have breast implants. This is something I am having trouble reconciling with my sense of a strong feminist self, but let me present some context for little (or NOT) Burt and Ernie.
While I havent posted much of my story with regard to my own eating disorder and recovery on this blog, Suffice to say I have been both 400 lbs and anorexic and the body I was born into could not take the abuse it was put through.
30 hours of surgery later, I have a body with mere traces of the 20 year assault it survived and not the massive disfigurement my initial recovery saw.
From the begining of this process, I specifically said RECONSTRUCTIVE and not plastic surgery (as it IS reconstructive) to remind both others and myself that these surgeries werent merely someone wanting Lipo to fit into a dress. Through the initial surgery that removed skin by making incisions 360 degrees around my lower body and up the front, this held. Through the surgery that took the skin off my arms and upper back, this help, but when it came to my breasts, things became difficult.
Originally while consulting several surgeons I left my breasts off the list of things that felt highly problematic, but as time went on, I realized that while going through this process, I did want a body that I could take out and play with like any other young woman. Wearing DD's before surgery, I assumed a lift would take them from the limp and lowered place and move them to where they were anatomically meant to be, but when speaking with my surgeon, he said that it would take an implant. Very confused, I pondered until he explained that by that point, they were composed mostly of extra skin and not breast tissue, and if he were merely to remove that I would be left with almost an A cup, which after a life of DDs would feel like living in someone elses body (especially as someone in touch with their body and sexuality). I agreed and didnt think much of it at the time and skipped off on my merry way. However as the week of surgery approached, it dawned on me that I was going to have breast implants. I, your ferocious feminist, body love preaching self, was going to have silicone.... balls... in my chest. As the day drew nearer, I pondered not going through with it. I reminded myself over and over that this was reconstructive and even ran that by a few (close) people, taking my shirt off for them to look and convince me. The idea of having to CHOOSE something as .... innate.... as a breast size seemed against everything I have believed in and preached, but my surgeon assured me that I did not have to choose a breast size, he was merely going to fill in where there was missing tissue.
Now that I have been getting used to these babies, I really like them. I dont like them because of their size (they are the same size as they were before surgery).
I dont like them because I can go braless (although, I admit I do kind of like to).
I like them because I finally feel like I am living in a body that is congruent with the healthy woman I am. SO no, they arent REAL, but they ARE really mine, much more than my breasts were before surgery.
So it has been said. I am a feminist with breast implants. And you know what? I like them.