Living With Less
By Jasmin O’Meara
On March 10, I celebrated the third anniversary of the "new" me. Three years ago, at the age of 15, I had my breasts reduced. The operation changed my outlook on life for the better.
I was barely eight years old when I first noticed that I had breasts. I caught the boy sitting next to me in class peeping into my T-shirt, admiring my miniature peeks. I pulled the neck of my T-shirt over my head, looked down and exclaimed: "Holy shit! I've got titties!"
I put off wearing a bra until grade six when I could no longer pretend that I was a little girl anymore.
This premature metamorphosis made me the centre of attention amongst boys at school. Some picked at my bra-strap with unparalleled enthusiasm. Others watched in horror as the girl that had always been "one of the boys" slipped away into the world of lacy underpants and embroidered brassieres.
Alas, that was never to be. I never had the chance to buy fancy garments as my breasts kept growing as if they were spiked with steroids.
At 13, I was already wearing hideous beige, D-sized cups that didn't really keep everything in.
Major health problems ensued. My agile/sporty body was replaced by an overweight/suffocated one. My diving and swimming careers went down the drain as my weight skyrocketed. As young as 11, my parents put me on diets and refused to let me have supper. They also pushed me into aerobics classes up to five times a week (which is more exhausting than anything considering the weight I carried on my chest). Mysteriously enough, my weight wouldn't settle down.
Above all, the weight of my breasts caused unbearable back problems which left me in agony after little chores like picking up a book off the floor. My mother gave me lengthy back massages every night and cracked my back and neck several times a day, but that only provided temporary relief.
At 14, I became a recluse. When I had to leave my nest, I wore very loose clothes and became famous for wearing black wool sweaters in mid-August. When I went to parties with my girlfriends, I'd wear two bras or anything to strap "them" down. However, nothing successfully hid my awkwardness or embarrassment.
Ironically, boys now considered my breasts to be too large. At a time when my girlfriends and I became boy-crazy and vice-versa, I was always the one overlooked. I sadly remember the time a boy took advantage of me on a very cold winter night. He later told his friends that he didn't want to have anything to do with me because I wasn't a "chick" (i.e. good-looking, attractive). Humiliated and crushed, I watched as he went out with my 5'10", 115-pound, blond, air-head friend.
Being a student at an all-girls school, I watched all my delicate, girlie classmates act pretty and feminine, something I felt I was not.
After years of spending nights crying about my body, my self-worth and my pathetic social life, I looked to the medical world for help. They diagnosed me with "bilateal gigantomastia." In other words, ‘having extremely large breasts.’ Finally, after months of waiting on lists, I underwent surgery at 15.
The strangest thing about having breast-reduction was the new body I woke to up after the anesthetic. For the first few months, I had to get used to seeing my face on a body that I didn't recognize. Not only had my cup size gone down to a 36C, but I lost 30 pounds almost instantly.
Two weeks after my operation, I started dating my first boyfriend. Four months later, I became the lead singer for a well-established band, made new friends and changed my outlook on life. I could enjoy being active again; running was no longer torture. More importantly, I had regained my self-confidence.
Unfortunately, my operation didn't solve everything. It even caused new difficulties. One of the set-backs is that I don’t know if I will be able to breast-feed once I've had a child. This was one of the main reasons I had put off having the surgery for many months.
My back problems haven’t completely gone away either. After years of bad posture, one can’t expect miracles!
My last problem was that my skin didn’t heal very well where the incisions were made and I have severe scars on both breasts, the worst being on the sides. It’s been three years, and the scars still hurt, especially when wearing a bra or when touched a little too hard. Certain people have tried hurting my feelings by mentioning my scars. For instance, my ex-boyfriend, during an argument, once said: "My other girlfriend had nicer breasts than you." Although it was an isolated case, those few words hurt more than all the physical pain I felt before and after the operation.
Still, I must admit that I've been extremely fortunate when it comes to my relationships. Out of the three people I've been involved with since my operation (two boys and one girl), none have been bothered by my scaring and have always been delicate with me.
Finally, despite the fact that they're not perfect, I'm so fuckin' proud of my breasts, and of what they represent; they are first thing I show to a new lover. My breasts are a part of my personality, part of transforming from a teenaged girl into the empowered woman that I strive to become.
*This article first appeared in The Dawson Plant on March 5, 1998.
Discuss this topic on Eve's Message Board.
