Dear Insurance Companies,
You probably don’t know me because I am just an average teenage girl. Average looks, average grades, average family, average everything, except my bra size. For those who do not how bra sizes are measured, let me simplify it. Bra sizes are told with a number followed by a letter. The numbers are the measurement of her back width and the letter represents the cup size. The cup sizes are as follows from smallest to largest: AA, A, B, C, D, DD (E), DDD (F), G, H, I, J, K, L, M, N, with the average bra size being a 34DD. I wish I was that lucky. Unfortunately, I was cursed with the bra size of a 32G, meaning that back is 32 inches wide (below average) and my boobs fit into a G cup (way above average). As you may imagine, the width of tiny back probably can’t support the weight of my massive breasts, and you would be right.
My life is a constant struggle between my clothes and me. I have to wear baggy shirts and flowing dresses to hide the monstrosities attached to my chest. I have to strategically pick the patterns I can wear to conceal the fact that my boobs are abnormally large. I can’t wear strapless anything. I can’t wear halter tops. I can’t wear form-fitting tops to emphasize my new-found womanly curves. I have to wear things that hide my body, the body that I’m supposed to be proud of. And don’t even get me started on bathing suits. In order to find a bathing suit that can properly fit me without my boobs pouring out of it, I have to go to a specialty bathing suit shop, and even then, they very rarely carry my size. While all of my friends can go to Victoria’s Secret and get the bombshell bathing suits that beautifully emphasize their womanly features in a tasteful way or wearing the latest summer bathing suit styles, I have to hide mine in a sea of monotone fabric. Bra shopping has also proved to be a gruesome task. Every time I walk into the fitting room and undress, I feel my heart pound and I pray that my size did not go up. The woman comes in with her tape measure of truth and takes all of my measurements. Once she gives me the verdict, she brings in all of the bras that will fit me, which isn’t much and I begin to try them on. After every bra I put on, I always get asked the same question: are you comfortable? But how can I answer that question if I’m not even comfortable in my own skin?
Having abnormally large breasts has definitely taken a toll on my self-esteem. I look at myself in the mirror and I am disgusted with the thing I see back. These gigantic weights attached to my chest eat away at my chest, making the rest of my features look disproportionate. I look short-waisted because my boobs droop under the weight of themselves. My legs look really long because my waist looks short, and I continue to go down my body, knit picking every single one of my features because of my breasts. And then, I fall; I crumble under the pressure of my own breasts and so does my self-esteem. As I stare at my reflection, the tears start streaming down my face, staining my once rosy red cheeks. I watch the tears stroll down my body until eventually hits the floor with a deafening thud. Each tear one by one cascades down my body, trying to heal the figurative wounds I inflicted on my wretched body.
However, I am not the only one that notices this major imperfection. My peers notice and they aren’t quiet about this revelation. Constantly, I get asked if I have scoliosis because I slouch all the time because of the weight of my breasts. They ask me if I have had a spinal injury. They ask me why I can’t sit up straight. And as these questions are fired away at me, I feel the pain trickle up my spine and spread throughout my shoulders. The tingling of the pain engulfs the parts of shoulders that surround my spine and then, I lose feeling in my shoulder and the only thing I can feel are the shooting pains that consumed the nerves in my shoulders. When I do sit up or stand up straight, the pain goes to my lower back because of all of the weight that it can barely support. I can’t help but flinch when all I can feel is pain.
I cry to my mom constantly. I always ask her why I can’t be like all of the other girls, why I can’t do the same things they do, why I can’t wear the same things they do, and my mom just looks at me with the most hopeless and helpless eyes I have ever seen. I can see how much she wishes she could help; I see how much she wishes she could take the pain away, but behind those looks I see her defeat because she knows that she can’t help me. As she watches the tears cascade down my face and the depression emanate off of my body, she can’t help but cry, and we lay there in each other’s arms crying over something that is out of my control.
Breast reduction surgery is not just cosmetic. Yes, it has cosmetic aspects to it, but it is much greater than that. There are emotional aspects. I have no confidence in myself, and whenever I generate a speck of confidence, the question about whether or not I have scoliosis always manages to destroy it. When I go shopping with my mom for new clothes that are supposed to help me identify as my own person, I end up crying to my mom because my breasts inhibit me from being just that. People constantly stare at me as I walk by as if I am some monstrosity or freak of nature and I have to pretend like I don't notice when in reality, it kills me inside. There are medical aspects. I can’t sit up straight or stand up straight to avoid pain but when I slouch, the pain finds its way to me. I know that as I get older, the problem will only get worse. As my back continues to deteriorate under the weight of the bricks strapped to my chest, back surgery will become inevitable.
And all of this could have been prevented with one, simple surgery.
Sincerely,
A normal girl with an abnormal problem
