This is a personal post. Seriously, why are you even thinking of reading it?
Oh… Right… Posting to public. Hm…
Anyway, I’m gonna post this because it’s on my mind. So the rest of you can be distracted by my thoughts.
Boobs. I like calling them boobs. I don’t care if it makes me sound like a teenager. Boobs are boobs. It’s a perfect word. So balanced and nice. And when I’m staring at such perfections, it’s hard not to be distracted.
I mean… (Pansexual. Leave me alone.)
Anyway. I’m not writing a love note to boobs. (Maybe I should…?)
I’m actually gonna talk about my own. I have a pair trapped to my chest. Things go out to Here (imagine me holding my hands way out; its a lie).
Ugh. Dysphoria can hit hard with these things.
Still, I’m not complaining about dysphoria. [Dress may offer you that.] This is a positive post.
Because my boobs as if grew three sizes.
Not overnight. Sheez, I’m not the Grinch (heart and boobs are …not similar at all…).
Over the last few years my boobs grew from a casual 34B to a 32DD… Although bra sizes won’t fit quite right. I’ll probably go 36C for comfort (and availability).
My under boob measurement is actually 31.5 inches. Yup. I’m that tiny. My waist comes in at 31 inches. Yeah… The loss is actually bloating. When I’m not careful with my illnesses, I bloat everywhere. It starts at my stomach and just spreads. Ever see bloated hands? I’ve had them. It looks creepy. My weight overall has increased. I’m settling at about 165lbs (BMI is a lie; don’t get me started).
My boobs clock in at 38 inches. Yeah… Big suckers. (Never did get that use out of them even if they did try.)
How did this all come to the surface?
Mom measured me for some clothes. I’ve always had this itty bitty waist that is at least one size smaller than my hips (42 inches now…).
Now I’m full on Barbie doll sizes.
I’m 35 with this itty bitty waist, massively wide hips, and huge knockers.
….You also wouldn’t know it. I don’t wear clothing that really shows everything off. I don’t flash people. I don’t normally even wear a bra. They’re noticeable. But nothing draws them in.
All off the rack stuff doesn’t fit right. I need to get an entire wardrobe of tailor made stuff so I actually can show off this itty bitty thing.
And… I probably need to hit up a gym to turn the flabby muscle into lean and fit. I handle life better with lean muscle.
I don’t really have fat. Pudges and budges are more likely to be bloat than fat. And what you see (and why I’m so heavy) is my bones and muscles.
Muscle is fucking heavy.
And that’s how I’m living so well even with so many illnesses.
But, these sizes. These new massive boobs I get to suffer with. Everything about this post.
It means I’m healthier than I ever was.
Next step? Beyond this intensely skillful food control? Exercise more and find a fucking doctor who’ll listen. I need some drugs to make the diet not matter as much.
I’m struggling still. But I’m alive. So much more alive than I ever was before.
I haven’t gone into shock in months. And before that time? It was also months.
Just need to be careful and on top of everything. And accepting when I’m stuck in bed. Because even if I am healthier, I still become bed bound at times. I still don’t have a normal person’s energy levels. I still sink readily. I still need to know where my wheelchair is at all times.
Healthier for me means I have periods where I can function properly. Where I could take on serious work at times. And I need to. Because child needs me functioning 24-7. Wish I was at that level.
You ableds just don’t realize what this post means to me.
I’m disabled. I’m struggling.
But I’m not going to just suffer and die. And I’ll look hot while doing whatever the fuck I am gonna do.