04/07/19

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I woke up in the hospital bed and instantly vomited. Until then, I had never been under anesthesia. It’s quite bizarre. I remember being wheeled to the operating room, being moved to the table, and beginning to count backwards from ten. I only got to seven. 

 

You never realize how much you use a body part until you can’t anymore. I was not allowed to lift my arms above my waist for three full weeks, I couldn’t lift anything heavier than three pounds, and I had to clean my incisions daily. 

 

I just had to keep reminding myself that in a few months it would be worth it.

 

When I was younger, I dreamed of joining the track team. I loved to run, and I figured it would keep me in shape. Throughout junior high school, I was too busy with extracurricular activities to participate, but I decided that in the Spring of my freshman year of high school, I would join. 

 

The first day of high school rolled around and with that came puberty. It was almost as if I grew boobs overnight. I went from an A to a C cup in two months. Then, I had to go on birth control as part of a requirement to be on Accutane, a drug that would get rid of my cystic acne. Three months later, I was a DDD. 

 

I had never been so uncomfortable in my skin. People stared, I was cat-called, and old male customers that I waited on thought it was a compliment when they winked at me.

 

“I swear to god I’m going to chop them off,” I’d scream to my mom every day. 

 

Ah, teen angst at its finest. 

 

What women with large breasts don’t tell you is that they hurt. I began to look like a hunchback, I had grooves in my shoulders, and my upper back would regularly spasm. Thanks to a lot of physical therapy and my chiropractor, I was able to dance competitively throughout high school. But, I was never able to join the track team. 

 

My junior year of college, I began looking into breast reduction surgery. After I read testimonials about how life-changing the surgery is, my heart was set on it. I scheduled a consultation without telling anybody, and scheduled my surgery that day. I got the last spot in 2018. I emailed my professors and took some final exams early so I could go under the knife on December 14th.

 

Ten weeks after surgery, I felt like myself again. I could exercise, I could sleep on my side at night, and I could dress myself easily. But, one thing still bothered me.

 

I have a 22 inch scar that starts under my left armpit, goes across the whole front of my chest, and ends under my right armpit. It’s a hard thing to be mad about. I chose this, and it made my life better in so many ways. But, I couldn’t get over the fact that my body was suddenly so imperfect. 

 

One night, my boyfriend and I were watching television at my house. I wanted to put a comfier shirt on. So, I faced away from him, took my shirt off, put a t-shirt on, and got back into my bed. I could tell that he wanted to say something, but was holding it in.

 

He regretfully asked, “Do I make you uncomfortable?”

 

I attempted to explain that it had nothing to do with him. That the sight of my scars even made me uncomfortable. But, he still had a confused look on his face. 

 

He said, “I love your scars because they’re a sign of you trying to better yourself.”

 

I started to cry.

 

I realized that all of my scars, mental, emotional, and physical, have shaped me into who I am today. The scars on my chest are a symbol of me finally choosing myself and valuing my health. My mental and emotional scars act as a reminder to always be kind to others.

 

Today, I look at myself in the mirror, and I see a strong woman.

 

Without my surgery, I never would have been able to run the half marathon that I did this past summer. And without enduring the trauma that I did, I wouldn’t fully understand or appreciate the love and joy that I have in my life today.

 

I learned to see things in a new light. 

 

I live every day of my life with these realizations in the back of my head.

 

And I am better because of it.