Doing It For Me

I usually can't decide if my dreams at night are too weird to mean anything or if my brain encrypts real meaning, so as to not throw pearls before swine. For instance, I encountered a tiny kitten locked up in Shyla's dresser drawer recently; do I interpret that to mean that Shyla has something tiny and defenseless locked up somewhere, or do I brush it off as my subconscious being silly? Luckily for Shyla, I decided the latter. But know that I am watching you, girl. Always watching.

But the other night, I had a unique dream that I could parse out exactly. I had been skipping my first period class all year, but going to the other classes and excelling; finals were near and I knew I couldn't graduate without passing this forsaken class. This part of the dream is not new; I have this dream consistently and it always turns out that the class doesn't matter or I pass the final anyway. In this particular dream, however, I decided that I needed to own up to my wrong-doings and go to the guidance counselor to find out how I could make up the missed class. The entire dream was spent inside the school office, waiting to be called into the counselor and to find out my fate. I felt assured and confident that I was doing the right thing. I woke up before I talked to anyone, but I immediately knew that I couldn't shrug off the dream's meaning.

Because the day previous to the dream, I made some real progress on something that I have been avoiding for most of my life. I finally decided to own up to something that scares the bejesus out of me, yet excites me to the core: getting a breast reduction.

I hit puberty at a relatively early age; when I was 11, my period started, I grew to my current height of 5'5", and my chest grew (seemingly) overnight. To say that I hated it would be an understatement. I felt like a complete freak and resented my mother for making me wear a bra (which I promptly took off from under my shirt while I walked to school every morning). I hid my changing body under huge sweatshirts, which became cumbersome in the southern California heat.

This over-sized Redlands High School sweatshirt was on whether it was freezing or melting.

The way I remember it, I went from a flat-chested tomboy to a D-cup in the blink of an eye. Since my mom wouldn't let me wear my sweatshirt to church, my church clothes made my figure a little easier to see.

And ever since those pubescent days, I have been ashamed of my chest. You can tell that I still feel that from the way I talk about them (chest rather than boobs or the ilk). I figured out later on that boys liked my chest, which added another layer of hatred for it in my mind; I wanted boys to like me for me, not for the sights in their narrow tunnel vision. And even though my body has matured and even produced two babies, I still feel 11-years-old--awkward and embarrassed that someone might notice that I'm top-heavy.

So while I was in California, I decided to get in touch with a plastic surgeon that my family knows. I asked him questions regarding insurance coverage and things I might need to do to prepare, like weight loss or arranging for help during recovery time. He answered my questions honestly and frankly; most insurance won't cover the procedure unless there are pain issues and most doctors want the patient to be close to a healthy BMI in order to safely perform the surgery. Luckily (or unluckily) for me, I do have some pain and rash issues. But I know that most of my problem is psychological. The doctor that I spoke with told me, "It is funny to think that many of my augmentation patients actually want D-cups while many true D-cuppers want reductions!" And I suppose that it is funny; everyone has their insecurities.

I don't know if I am trying to convince you or inform you, but ultimately, I have decided that I need to do this for me. I suppose it is that way with any big life change, be it surgery or a new career or a lifestyle change--you ultimately have to do it for yourself. So, for myself, I have decided to contact a local plastic surgeon and get the process started. I'm trembling with excitement and fear as I type this; the moment I press "Publish," everyone will know my deepest shame and my biggest dream. And eventually, I will be called into the guidance counselor's office to start fixing the thing that I have been avoiding all my life.