A Love Letter to My Shitty Titties

Dear shitty titties,

Oh, my boobs. My tits. My once proud melons who have now shrunk down to empty skin bags after I dropped 80 pounds over the last four years. Oh, my dear gozangas-turned-literal-sad-sacks… we have had a complicated relationship, you and I.

I wish I could love you as you are, but as I write this I’m sitting on the train on my way to have a long-dreamed-of breast augmentation and lift. My days of trying to force myself to accept you as you are are finally over.

You came into my life earlier than I expected, and I was nowhere near prepared as an 11 or 12-year-old for the brand new sense of agency you gave me. I loved to show you off — Catholic school uniforms were no match for us! You gave me power at a time in my life I was looked down on for being that weird nerd kid who was obsessed with video games and did shit like learning Latin for fun.

As I kept growing, shitty titties, so did you. And I never really stopped growing — around the time I stopped expanding vertically, I started expanding horizontally. After 190lbs, I decided I didn’t want to step on the scale anymore, and in those days, you were the only part of me I liked. I wore loose clothing to hide everything else, but I kept you proudly on display. “At least I have a nice rack,” I’d tell myself as I cried at the sight of my own reflection. 

But then, through years of discipline and hard work, I shrank, and so did you. You deflated like balloons forgotten in the days after a child’s birthday party.

I tried to love you as you changed… really, I did. I talked to my therapist about you. I bought supportive bras in which you pooled at the bottom like sand, stuffed you into cute bralettes that showed off my hard-won abs — my new favorite feature, I’m sorry to say — and picked clothing cut high across my chest to hide you. I spent lots of money on lotions and creams that were supposed to tighten you up.

Light as a feather, flat as a board.

I’ve tried to love you as part of a new body that I finally was proud of… but I couldn’t be naked around another person without obsessing, at any moment, about how you looked. I’d wear a sports bra and nothing else, just so I didn’t have to see you flop about. Even when I got out of the shower and it was just you two and me, I’d avert my eyes so I didn’t have to see you or hold you up with my hands like pancakes on a plate and feel a deep sense of shame and regret for letting myself ruin you.

Picture of what my boobs looked like when I leaned forward.

I wish I could have fixed you with exercise. I wish I could have fixed you with time or love. But you make me unhappy, deeply unhappy — you are one of the few chinks in the armor of self-worth I have so carefully constructed. It’s why that one abusive ex would say such cruel things about you, call me saggy and deflated, make fun of you to the whole world on social media. He wanted to land a deep cut, and he knew me well enough to know the best way to try.

So I’m paying a highly-skilled man a lot of money to slice you up, stuff you with the best silicone money can buy, rearrange you, and sew you back together. You’re going to be pretty unhappy with me for a while about that decision. You’re going to have some scars forever.

But I have some scars too, and I love myself for those scars. Those scars are a testament to the things I’ve survived. Your scars are going to be a testament to my years of struggling with my weight, and then winning that battle: you’re joining that little fold of loose skin on my stomach, my stretch marks that have faded to silver, the cellulite on the back of my thighs, and now the lollipop-shaped scar that will run around your areolas and shoot straight vertically down your underside. We’ll never be perfect, you and I, but we can always be better than we were yesterday. We don’t have to give up on ourselves and settle. 

I’m ready to be proud of you again, to look at you the same way I look at my abs or biceps, or my collarbones so sharp I could cut an asshole in two. I’ll be proud because I’ll have paid for you by working my ass off, moving in with a friend and her 7-year-old daughter to save money (a tough decision, as someone who lived on her own for 5 years and needs a lot of alone time to stay sane), knocking out $50k of my debt this year, and then saving up for you.

The rest of my body is a testament to my hard work with diet and fitness. You’re special, though. You’re going to be a testament to my hard work in my career and personal finances, getting my shit together and adulting so fucking well.

I wanted to title this post “A Eulogy to My Shitty Titties,” but this is not truly a goodbye, old friends. I’ll see you on the other side — I can’t wait to meet the new us ❤️