For Breast Cancer Month
October 2005
October 2006
More than you ever wanted to know about my breasts.
While I don’t feel I need to justify posting my own boobs on my blog, there is a nagging sense that I need to explain my decision and even put to discussion and dialog the phenomenon called breasts. As you know, October is Breasts Cancer Awareness Month.
Many people run for the cure, bake for the cure and do art for the cure and so on…
Deborah Sue Wood died of breast, brain and lung cancer on Oct 2, 2001. Sue was very dear to me. She was mother of someone I love very much as well as acting as a surrogate for me in my times of need. I don’t think I’ve talked much about her death or the effect her life and death had on me because I think to some degree I felt like someone else needed to grieve it first before I could accept it.
This venture is my way of embracing a part of myself that I think Sue would not only have encouraged me to accept, but to love a part of my body and reclaim it – make it mine. So let me begin with what I believed breasts to be as I grew up.
I’ve heard so many names for boobs that I can’t even begin to write them all down.
The point I want to make is not once when I was growing up did I ever feel like they were something for my own pleasure or a part of my body to be appreciated by me. My dad even said to me, “Athena, I think it’s time to be getting you a bra – you don’t want to be one of those women with saggy breasts when you grow up, do you?”
I grew up believing they were baby feeding tools, or objects that got in the way of sports or magnets to get a husband. I was taught that IQ was less important that cup size, that personality was for ugly girls and that implants were for strippers… but strippers were at least appreciated more than girls with personality or IQ’s above 70.
I was taught that when you grow into a 36C when you are only 14, that you are blessed/cursed with this strange gift of having guys give you things you don’t really want, or pretend to listen to what you’re saying while nodding at your chest. I learned very quickly and tragically that if I did want something, I had but to lean forward in a v-neck and pout.
When you learn this before you are old enough to drive much less drink or vote – the possibilities are endless for what sorts of dehumanizing – and sad lessons you will learn in search of finding a healthy relationship that’s not built on manipulation and or sex. Your self-esteem becomes rooted in your appearance and in the shape, hang, curve or shadow of your cleavage. Unfortunately this is a vicious circle which also attracts dangerous and unwanted attentions from men with the moral and ethical judgments of a Neanderthal.
Cases in point; The 42 year old movie star that invited me to his trailer when I was 14 years old, and the bus driver that groped me on my way home one night when I was alone at the age of 27.
While there are more cases these are perfect examples of why I did what I would call – the hide and survive tactic. Gain weight, wear baggy clothes and don’t do your hair or makeup, look at the ground when walking and roll shoulders forward to protect your breasts and by default – your heart.
I hated my body growing up. I didn’t know how to deal with the attention. I didn’t know how to quantify looks when I was barely getting my period and when I started having sex I wasn’t sure what to do with the awkward sway of fatty tissues on my chest that kept getting more attention than my face, hips or mouth.
When I was married it wasn’t very different. While I had love, I still had to come to terms with my personal space being invaded whenever someone felt like copping a feel. Cooking dinner, walking the dog or watching a movie I had to become somewhat familiar with the probability that he would either consciously or even unconsciously reach out or squeeze my boob with a smile, often when I had two arm loads of groceries so there was no way to block him.
I understand some men are ass men, and women endowed in the rear probably have to learn to deal on that level also. It just so happened that I married a boob man who was an ass.
I didn’t know how to vocalize then what I was feeling because well, I still slept with the guy, but since I’ve been alone long enough to think it over and come to terms with what I feel this is where I stand.
I love my breasts. I worked really hard to get to a mutual understanding with them and make them a part of my overall image in a semi-healthy manner. If you want to show me respect, respect my body. While I’m up for a caress and a cuddle and every now and again can even tolerate some gropage to work out a fixation you might have – these are my breasts and part of my body so asking first will get you further than a “you’re married they’re mine approach”. My breasts are like me, they’re emotional – moody even. They have days when they simply can’t tolerate the constriction of a bra, or when I’m ovulating they ache. Nothing likes to be handled roughly when it doesn’t feel well. They like to be cupped, not jerked. Kissed, not gnawed upon. They like music and heat and soft cotton clothing. They have days when they want to be alone, and days when they can’t stand being a part of a team. Other times they’re needy and crave affection.
Sometimes they want to be put on display. They like to get dressed up to go out and a kind word goes a long way on those days. Sometimes they like to be massaged and others just gazed upon, but when I love someone – they too are in love. Don’t misunderstand, my breasts love your attention as much as I do – but there’s the catch. The moment they feel like you are obsessing over them and leaving my other parts out, they will become defensive and cranky. They know we come as a package; IQ, personality, curves and humor. If you neglect one or show favoritism to one – they will all rebel, and if my humor goes on strike - - - you’re just shit out of luck. No boobs for you!
Several months after my divorce I did something I’ve wanted to do for years, but believe it or not I worried about my husbands response to me piercing my own nipples so I waited until I felt like it was time to make my breasts my very own. No one else’s to grab or fondle. The day I pierced my nipples I felt like a new woman. A new woman in a lot of pain. It was nearly a hundred degrees that day and I couldn’t wear a bra so I was sweating directly into my new piercing. Each morning and night I would soak my breasts in a coffee mug of salt water to help them heal. Nothing like starting your day by nursing a mug that says, “have a nice day.” It became a ritual to reinforce that they were in fact mine, and I was nurturing myself toward the cause of becoming whole.
I love my piercing. It required a lot of rethinking about how I understand my breasts, the things I take for granted (like not snagging your shower loofah on your studs, or swimming in water without a disinfectant on hand). But they are mine, undeniably mine. And with that realization comes the awareness that they are not what make me a valuable woman.
While I have no idea what it’s like to have a lumpectomy, a mastectomy or even chemo. I do know what it’s like to have breasts. I hope to god I never have to face the sorts of trauma that so many women face with breast cancer. I hope to god I’m never faced with losing them because even though I know they are not what make me a woman – they are mine. They are my flesh and my body and despite what psychological work I’ve done to come to terms with my own breasts… I’m sure it doesn’t even scratch the surface of what would happen were I to loose them have them damaged or be faced with a disease where my own breasts could kill me.
If you have a wife or a girlfriend treat her breasts with respect not because you are awed by boobs, but because you are awed by something that belongs to the body of a woman you adore. Be fascinated with them not because you are a boob guy, but because you are a “boobs on her” guy. If you’re ever in question about how the moods of her breasts work – ASK. I’m sure she’ll be surprised and might even laugh at first but it’s just shock. Honestly, we’d rather a guy ask than not.
If you have a lover, sister, mother, aunt, cousin or friend with breast cancer. Remind them not with words but by your actions that while they are in pain and fear and hurting from chemo – you love them. When they have healed and are grieving the loss of something they might not even know how to describe, remind them not with words but with actions you are relieved that they are okay. Let them cry on you. Let them tell you about their loss. Let them rant or scream or sleep and when they are strong, remind them not with words but with actions that breasts do not make the woman. She is not the sum of her parts. She is spirit and fire. She is earth and wind and water. Remind her not with words, but with actions that she is a goddess.
