Sunday, April 8, 2012

Why Breezy, what great big boobs you have!

"Why Grandma, what big teeth you have!"  Duh!  Now I suppose I should cut Little Red Riding Hood some slack because after all, she was a dumb kid hopping about in the forest wearing a red hooded cloak. Now, who makes this fashion faux pas anyway?  Obviously, a stupid, silly girl not recognizing her nemesis, the wolf, in her grandmother's clothing waiting to pounce on her as an hors d’œuvre.

I absolutely hate it when people state the obvious.  I have a friend who was the best man at my first wedding.  He's 7 feet 2 inches tall (please correct me dear if I'm wrong) and it's completely incomprehensible to me when some moron says, "Hey dude, you're tall!"  Really?  How does said moron have the gall to utter such a ridiculous phrase?  If I were my friend, I'd want to squish the pest like the inconsequential mosquito that he is.  However; I'm not my friend and yet, I get it.  I understand the awkwardness of the situation because I - in my own way - have also struggled to overcome a couple of obvious physical attributes which have haunted this tomboy for years.

I know I've mentioned my bust size before.  It's no secret.  I'm not ashamed of it any longer.  Yet, when I was a kid in grade school, I was mortified by their continuously burgeoning cup size.  What made it more distressing was that I lived in a family where teasing about anything and everything was the standard.  Cruel words and nastiness were flung out as quickly as pokes and punches.  I could take the physical stuff but when an older, thinner sibling called me a fat heifer or a pig, I found my arms starting to wrap around my growing chest.  I wanted to hide the fact that I was becoming larger breasted than my sisters.  There was something wrong with me.  I started to believe the words.  I wanted to hide beneath layers of clothing.  I didn't want to be seen in dresses or bathing suits.  I started mutilating my body; first with food.  By the time I entered high school, I weighed over two hundred pounds.  I had no self-worth.  I allowed men to assault me and did not report the crimes.  I believed I would never deserve or have anyone better. 

Throughout the years, I went on incredibly strict or insane diets.  I lost the physical weight but my mind was never convinced that the fat girl was gone.  People would tell me how beautiful I was and yet I believed they were trying to be nice - lying to spare my feelings.  I didn't see a beautiful face looking back in the mirror, only an insignificant, fat slob.  The fourth in a line of five children; the first was smart as a whip and funny, the second was the oldest son and athletic, the third was the beauty, the fourth, me -- mediocre in everything I attempted.  Finally, the fifth, eleven years later - he is the final and the best of us all.

I don't cry often as I blog.  Perhaps, I place myself in another realm, another space and type from outside the heart where it doesn't effect me; however, this evening I'm surrounded by my siblings.  Old hurts have come pouring out.  Even when I think they've been healed by years of therapy, one of two comments about the enormity of my breasts - lighthearted jokes my mother insists - have brought my arms folded tightly against myself once again. 

By the way, the second mutilation was the cutting.  When I was thin, though certain I was still tremendously fat, I would pull out tweezers and start tearing at the sides of my breasts.  I had - and still have - several tweezers hidden throughout my house for those desperate moments when I feel the compulsive need to pick at myself.  I had to leave my tweezers in Colorado due to the flight to California.  I found a pair of tweezers yesterday in the bathroom.  Tonight, after the last lighthearted joke and watching home movies of me as a little girl sitting quietly in the background, trying to hide from the camera, I was desperate to find those tweezers and start ripping at myself once again.