I scheduled a consultation for a breast reduction

My breasts started developing when I was 7. I neither needed, nor wanted the added attention they brought me… from the boy down the street who called me “donut chest” (still don’t understand that one), to the old man who ran the shop downtown who molested me, and told me that I would never have to worry about drowning because I have built in flotation devices. I have put off surgery for years, but I feel like the time is right, so, in September (not losing swimming time for this) I will sit with a surgeon, and discuss the procedure.

I have a multitude of reasons for this surgery.

1. I am sick of carrying 20 lbs (Yes, I have weighed them.) In my bra.
2. I hate the indents in my shoulders.
3. I don’t remember a time without back and shoulder pain.
4. I would love to actually fit into a bra. (Sizes that are well made go to N, I need an R, and that doesn’t even exist)
5. The ability to find cute tops that fit would be great.
6. I have tried physical therapy, losing weight, etc. Nothing has helped.
7. If I let myself fall backwards into bed, I smack myself in the face with a boob.
8. It will help me feel better physically.
9. I may be able to find a swimsuit that actually fits.
10. I want this.

I feel like there isn’t any good reason not to go ahead with this, it will grant relief on my back, neck and shoulders, and finding bras will be easier. That said, I can’t help being nervous. As much as I hate my chest, it is a part of me, and I wonder whether I would look silly when there is less of it. Not that I am some great enchantress now, lol but I wonder if I will look… idk, lopsided or something. I suppose we will see.



When I woke up this morning, I did not want to get out of bed.

But I did it anyway.

Arienette didn’t want to get up either. Nor did she want to get dressed, or otherwise get ready for school.

She did it anyway. (With some help)

I brought the laundry and started it at my mothers house, dropped Ari off at kindergarten, and went across the street to the courthouse to get a copy of my divorce decree, so that my divorce can be finalized in Turkey. I told the woman that I needed the signature notarized so that I could have it apostillized to go overseas. She refused. She said the certification was the only notary they do. I argued with her, but eventually just took it and left knowing what would happen at the state house later. I should have known better than to wear red into a courthouse.

I drove the 20 minutes to my OBGYN for my colposcopy. Walking in, I spoke with the receptionist I have seen there every time I have been there for almost 18 years now. It was good to see a familiar, friendly face. I went upstairs, an waited for my Dr. to be ready for me. The nurse took me in, and we chatted a bit… she was nice, but my nerves were overkill already. The Dr came in, and I launched into a stream of questions. What will this procedure entail? What happens if you find something? What does that procedure entail? Etc. He happily answered all of my questions, even drawing diagrams, and then it was time. He found one spot to remove for testing, then, took a sample from inside my cervix just to be sure. He said results will come back in 1-2weeks, not 4-8 (I wish I could remember who said that so I could slap them), and that, if it comes back precancerous, I will need a leep procedure, which is more invasive and means I can’t drive for 24 hours. All in all, it wasn’t as bad as I expected, I didn’t even feel most of it.

Then, I drove to the state house, and went to the office of the Secretary of State. I explained what was going on, and that I had done this a few times before, as well as what the court clerk told me. They told me that I was correct, and called the court to tell them what needed to be done even though I already told them. Then, they sent me to a second court house.

While I was on my way to the second court house, my eye Dr called to let me know my glasses were ready. The eye Dr was closer, so I went there first. Found out the glasses I have been wearing are 1.5 times stronger than what I need, even though I like those frames better than my new ones.

So, finally finding the district court, I managed to find the right person to get my document notarized, and brought it back to the state house to get the apostille. Just as I was leaving my parking spot, I got a text from someone I care about that completely shattered me, and then was on my way home. Stopped at the store for mom, switched over laundry, picked Arienette up, and now I just want to crash, but I am at karate for my teenager for the next 3 and a half hours.

I am dead on my feet.

Books and Their Covers.

When you tell me that the reason you don’t like me is my size, even when the way you say it, is sugar coated, and wrapped in gentleness, what I hear is “You could be absolutely perfect for me. You could be everything I am looking for in a woman… but I won’t consider you, because there is too much of you.”

I’m not going to lose weight for you. I am going to lose weight, but it will never be for you. If my weight is so important to someone that they will make it the deciding factor in whether or not I am ”good enough” for them, then they don’t deserve me.

I am an entire, complex person. I sing, I debate, (okay, sometimes, I revel in a downright argument) I paint, draw, color, I write, and I think I write well. I read so much sometimes that I burn myself out on it. I love research, if I don’t understand something I will look it up. I love words, colors, and shapes. (Not so much numbers. Anyone who knows me knows I can’t math.) I love being outside, walking on the beach or in the woods, swimming, playing in the rain. I love living and doing and being. I have been told my smile brightens a room, and that I am funny. My eyes get so many compliments, that sometimes it is actually a bit embarrassing. I am kind, smart, and beautiful inside and out. I am a complete package. A whole person lives inside this body.

The idea that someone can not appreciate me because of my body size is disgusting to me. I understand preference. Personally, I prefer a man who has an average build myself. However, preference does not mean that I would not consider someone because of their size. I have liked guys who were bigger, smaller, and everywhere in between. I have liked guys who were stereotypically attractive, and those who were not. Each of these men has captured my interest because of who they are, not what they look like. You could be the perfect Adonis, but be so insipid that I would be bored with them. What point would there be in that? Contrariwise, you could be the most interesting person on the planet, and look plain, and I would be head over heels, wanting your attention.
It saddens me that so many people value appearance over content.

If you can’t appreciate me when I am bigger, you don’t appreciate me.

Books and covers, everyone.


I hate that word.

More appropriately, I hate that word when applied to an adult. A crush is, in my opinion, a fleeting feeling, generally experienced by children and teenagers. You know, “flavor of the week” type stuff.

Meriam Webster defines “crush” thusly: a strong feeling of romantic love for someone that is usually not expressed and does not last a long time

I personally do not feel like this word applies to me. I’m sure there have been times I have had a crush on someone, but it has been a long time since then. If I fall for someone, it LASTS. Even when unreciprocated, and especially when I enjoy how their mind works.

So to be told that I have a “crush”… I’m sure it was nothing more than a word to the person saying it, but to me… it was like a slap in the face. I don’t have a crush. I love.

There has been one man that I have ever liked enough to put myself out there, to put my heart on the line. I pulled my big girl panties up so far, I had a wedgie all the way to my heart, and I told him how I felt. When he told me he didn’t like me, my heart just about snapped in half, but I didn’t stop feeling it. That was in March. My feelings have only grown stronger. His feelings don’t exist. That’s fine. I can’t make someone feel something they don’t feel, I can’t make him care about me. I also can’t make myself stop loving him.

So, I have pulled back. We barely talk anymore. He doesn’t seem to care, or notice… perhaps he even prefers when I don’t talk to him. When I see him, I can’t look him in the eyes, because I am afraid that I will cry. I don’t want him to see that. I wish I could just stop loving him.

Perhaps, some day, I will.

Perhaps some day, I will even find myself caring about someone new… but I don’t think I will ever be able to put my heart on the line like that again. It just hurts too much.

Fear and Honesty

*Disclaimer* This is kind of all over the place. Take it as you will.

I am a very honest person.

Sometimes, vexingly honest.

If I am thinking something, and I feel like it is something you should know, and I haven’t been asked to not share it, or otherwise entrusted with it by another person, I’m going to tell you. Simply because withholding information is a form of lying, in my opinion. This is both a blessing, and a curse. I am upfront, very blunt. I don’t beat around the bush, or waste your time, but, at the same time, my honesty has a habit of making people I care about uncomfortable. That is not intentional; of course, it is just a byproduct of being called a liar so often as an adolescent, that you make it a point to be the complete opposite.

Sometimes, I will even blurt something out, not because I feel that you need to know it, but because I need to say it to someone, and I trust you enough to hear it and not judge me too harshly for it. Perhaps, I ought to do less of this.

I will not say that I don’t occasionally blur the edges to make people feel better…”yes, of course your baby is cute”… when asked… though, sometimes, I do wish it were okay to be honest about it, since, no. Not all babies are cute. As Dr. House said, quite frequently, “Everybody lies”. I do, however, try to keep it to the “necessary” minimum.

I realized last night, that there is one area of my life that I have never been able to be completely honest about. That realization tore into me like a knife on fire, and what followed was something else I rarely experience. Fear.

Now, I have always been afraid of something happening to my daughters. That fear has made me feel big, powerful… like I would do anything to keep them safe… and, of course I would.

This new fear made me feel small, fragile… like I wanted to curl into a ball and hide inside myself.

I don’t have a lot of experience with fear. I generally feel like, if it can’t kill you, there is no point in being afraid of it, and, if it can kill you, well, we are all going to die anyway, so, what’s the point? But this isn’t a thing; that is to say, it isn’t tangible.

I have never been able to be completely honest about what I need. Primarily in relationships, but not exclusively; whether it has been an emotional need, or a physical one, sexual or whatever, I have always been more concerned about what my partner needs than what I do.

Now that I have been honest with myself about this, and about what it is that I doneed… that is where the fear comes in. I find myself wanting to crawl inside myself, because I am afraid that I will someday decide to begin a relationship with someone who will then run away because I am too much… because what I need is more than he can or is willing to give. I am afraid that I will never find a man who can “handle” me. It leaves me wondering whether the reason it has been so difficult for anyone to actually care about me is because they can tell that I am a freak.


Sometimes, okay, most of the time, I miss having someone. It isn’t just the physical aspect I miss, though of course I miss being touched, and held… having someone stronger than I am, who can take control physically… but, what I miss most is the other.

I need someone with whom I can spar mentally; somebody who I can talk to about anything and everything – from why some camels have one hump and others have two (this literally kept me up for hours one night, and I ended up having to look it up before I could sleep) to our innermost thoughts and secrets. Someone who is interested in knowing everything about me, and who will allow me to learn everything about him.

I want someone to be there for, someone who will be here for me, as well. Someone who won’t turn away when I am breaking into pieces. Someone I can wake up next to in the mornings, and smile with the knowledge that he loves me, and he is here because he wants to be.

I need someone I can poke at, and play with… someone who will run with me, not for exercise, but through a meadow, laughing, just to tumble to the ground and lay, sprawling, and looking at the clouds. Someone who will encourage me to be precisely who I am, and will love me all the more for it.

Someone who feels like home.

I am Taking Walking Back.

As a child, I remember asking my mother every day whether I could walk home from middle school. I would walk through the woods at the back of the school as a shortcut, where the “cool kids” would smoke, mentally daring them to offer me one so I could throw it to the ground and stomp on it. (Yeah, I was that kid) I loved walking. Whether it was a walk to the park, or the corner store, pizza place, library or school, I was all about it.

Then, at the beginning of 8th grade, we moved.

Everything inside me was so adamantly against moving that something must have broken. I hated everything about it. This meant that I would be spending my final year of middle school in a new town, where I knew nobody. Which also meant that I would know virtually nobody when I got to high school, and we all know that being a freshman is bad enough on the social scale. Everything and everyone I knew would be left behind, and to make matters worse, my cat had just run off; presumably to be alone when he died.

In my new town, I didn’t really make very many friends. I actually cried because people weren’t picking on me because I thought it meant nobody liked me… back home, my friends would all take little jabs at each other – all meant in fun, of course… and I didn’t have that anymore. I had nothing. I didn’t even have the ability to ride the bus to and from school… and suddenly, I hated walking.

It wasn’t that the walk was farther or anything, in fact, I feel like it was closer… lots of hills to walk up and down, but the distance wasn’t bad at all. I think it was just part of the moving experience. I wanted no part of it, and something I once loved now became something I loathed.

I have hated walking ever since the day I moved in November of 1998. However, even more than that, I have hated the fact that I lost my love for something I once loved. I hate that I haven been spending so much time outside anymore. The problem is, I have just been letting the hate stew, rather than doing something about it.

Then, a friend of mine introduced me to the local dam. It is an easy walk to the end, and there are so many nature paths that are so pretty. My favorite so far looks like it is made of magic. I have been trying to lose weight, and I can’t swim just yet. Walking is a good exercise… I used to love walking… so, I decided to reclaim it.

I am taking walking back.

I am making some changes in my life. One of them will be reclaiming things that I used to love that I have allowed to fall by the wayside.