When I set out to write this I thought it would be easy. Now, as I sit down to my fourth attempt I realise the impact my boobs have had on my life. Do I write about the delay in growth then the sudden burst of growth made me go from a flat chested mockery to a sex object practically over night? Do I write about embarrassing hoops I had to squeeze my tits through to attempt to get a breast reduction on the NHS only to be told they are ‘not quite big enough’, then to be told that they do take into account enhanced breasts when doing data, not natural so the statistics are effectively irrelevant? Do I speak about the uncountable times I have been verbally and physically sexually assaulted in the street - in the day walking to work - even in a big coat, purely because my boobs are so vast? Do I speak about the unbound joy of finally being able to breast
feed my baby after weeks of misinformation on pain - and the equally bright joy of my second child latching on as they were still shoving my innards back inside from my c section (then not letting go for over 3 years)? Do I talk about the repeated sexual abuse from just trying to wear summer clothes in summer? or the gift of the ability to make my loved ones laugh at even the darkest of times purely because my pendulous bosoms do just look utterly hilarious? Do I speak about how my daughters fear having boobs because they have witnessed all of this? It is tough. I realised the sensitivity of my boobs opens a door that I didn’t realise was there in my head, and my heart. I have decided to split it into two.
I have extremely big boobs. My back is tiny but my boobs just didn’t stop grown - even as my weight fluctuated I was always known as Annie with the massive tits. From the second they sprouted, all of a sudden and all covered in sore, deep stretch marks like I’d been in a brawl with a badger; they were no longer mine. Men I knew and men I didn’t had the right to comment, shout, touch, grope, judge, sneer and utterly humiliate my boobs. No one defended me, I learned these boobs were not mine and they all had a right to do what they wanted with them. I learned that no time of day, garment of clothing, or place was safe. The fact I had to always wear two or three bras made it harder for them to pull off my top and laugh at them, like a literal boogie trap. The weeping ulcers which were constantly infected made them recoil and become angry that this large titted advertisement was not the same as the bouncing silicone promises of the pornos they’d had on a loop since they were 12. Sorry old chap but me wearing a mask does not prevent my vision - I can still see you penetrating my cleavage with your beady eyes. If I didn’t want men to shout about them or stick their hands up my top then why was I putting them out there - on the front of my body all the time?? It was my fault. I was a cock tease for existing and I was a fraud because they didn’t look right and I “should have surgery.” and frigid for pushing them away, even at 11.
The ability to be able to make people laugh is a true gift, if I can make my loved ones laugh, it works like medicine for me; even when I am drowning, all I need is an hour of laughter with true friends. There is nothing in the world that cannot be fixed with an inappropriate guffaw until you wee a little bit. The bonus of having these wind sock flappers norks is that they are funny. The joy of drawing a sketch of my boobs windmilling around or getting caught in a passing car purely to make a pal laugh immeasurable. Or a photo of my naturally ankle grazing tits consuming my pyjama top when I wake up to send to a friend when they are having a bad day is just the gift that keeps giving. A shot of my milk obsessed monster clawing at my body in the dark capturing the true imagery of breast feeding to help other mums and - also - just make my loved ones laugh - that is just brilliant. It is funny, but it is MY joke, I am not A joke.
The truth is the abuse has resulted in me no longer wanting any intimacy, the connection of 39 years of abuse makes it impossible despite the therapy, the constant abuse has left its mark, primarily because it’s not stopping. I have been single by choice as I cannot disconnect and I don’t know how to stop the abuse in the street. The only control I can have is to retire from intimacy. So I am happy for them to be a joke and a continuing source of safety and warmth for my daughters because I have no choice - they were never my boobs to begin with were they?