Six Months After My Breast Explant…

… the really hard work begins.

I had no idea that so many women believed that the answer to plugging the hole in their self-esteem or keeping their husbands off of porn or any number of problems that had nothing to do with their breasts, was to commission a scalpel to cut their bodies up.

The change that matters most happens in your head — not your body.

J.C. Penney catalog from the ‘80s

The only wedding I’d ever attended was held in the basement of the local union hall.

Me at 4-years-old

Sex wasn’t just shameful in my house. Sex was shame.

Lingerie section

I wanted breasts that would fill out a bra in a way that made someone feel about my body the way I felt about theirs.

My implants weren’t the only thing I needed to let go of.

My body was like a collection of mismatched Frankenstein parts.

Swimsuit, pre-explant. Shopping as an anorexic woman with breast implants was an expensive proposition in mis-matched sizes.

That suit sat in its package for 48 hours on my dresser until I was changing into my jammies one night and finally said to myself, “Fuck it. Let’s get this over with.”

After explants, after gaining weight, after facing my fear of the swimsuit — I have a different, more flat-chested figure. (Please excuse the weird angle. I’m not a proficient selfie taker and I was trying to keep the focus on the boobs).

I was pretty let down when I disrobed and she told me that there’s not much she can do for me without putting in a new implant. There is just too much excess skin.

In fact, thinking that there is a problem is the real problem.

The recent evolution of my breasts: the day before explant (top), the week after (middle), and today, six months later

Back then, I was much closer to the unrealistic ideal that is peddled in pop and porn culture. The one he is supposed to be attracted to.

It's about my willingness to do emotionally difficult things to get closer to the woman I wish to become.

My Lover sometimes sends me the kind of messages I never got when I was a little girl.

Healthy is beautiful.

And I’m sure as hell not going to give up on myself.

Mama, writer, lover, fighter — I wear my heart on my sleeve because my pants pockets are too small.

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