“I’m trying to love my body, but it’s hard”

The first time I saw that painting, it took my breath away. I saw every curve and fold in the subject’s body, and they felt like my own.

Except her hair was long, her breasts were out — this was a girl, and I was not. You’d never see me like that, celebrating my femininity, celebrating the body I was walking around in. My breasts? Those were staying TIGHTLY bound to my chest.

Naturally, I searched and searched for an alternative that looked a little more like me — someone with shorter hair, someone wearing a binder — and when I couldn’t find one, I asked a friend of mine to paint one. I still look at it every day. And it’s rang true every day – I am trying to love my body. And it has always been hard.

If I had to explain my relationship to my breasts, I would just use the word uncomfortable. That feels more all-encompassing than dysphoria, because this feeling predated any knowledge I had of what dysphoria is or feels like.

It was uncomfortable when I started developing them and my whole family commented on how big they were — calling out my genetic predisposition to having “watermelons,” telling me they were jealous.

It was uncomfortable learning about bras — from the first time someone told me I needed one to seeing cleavage pop out above my shirt, when evangelical purity culture mixed with trauma mixed with this impending sense of alienation from my body made picking out clothes a nightmare, when I kept staring at myself and saying to others that I just hated where they were placed on my body, like a few inches of upward movement would make them more bearable.

It was uncomfortable when the girl in junior high started a rumor that I was cutting my breasts and that’s why I never wore shirts that showed any cleavage.

It was uncomfortable when I tore every single shirt out of my closet trying to find one that didn’t make me look weird — I couldn’t place why it looked weird, but my brain went into a panic every time I had to pick out an outfit or pack for a trip or dress nicely.

It just never made sense to me.

I wore a binder for the first time when I started doing drag — I borrowed it from a friend, and I remember tentatively asking questions and trying not to admit that wearing that binder made the uncomfortable a little less panic-inducing.

I started walking a little taller, putting effort into my appearance, making myself look the way I wanted, and I taught myself to ignore my breasts, pretend there was nothing hanging off my chest, nothing I needed to stuff into a compression garment to be able to look at myself in the mirror.

I taught myself to ignore the uncomfortable, still in the background, but now down to a dull roar I could drown out with a nice pair of suspenders and a pronoun pin to hope people wouldn’t pay attention to what was under my shirt.

Of course, the uncomfortable came back sometimes — when a tank top had straps that were a little too thin, when any shirt was a little too tight or the wrong binder was clean and I had to wear it with the wrong shirt — and with it came the same panicky terror, the same compulsion to tear every shirt out of my closet trying to quiet the scream of uncomfortable over and over again so I could allow myself to leave the house.

I pushed it down a little further when I was able to start testosterone, distracting myself with a newfound love for my fuzzy stomach and my somehow-impressive sideburns — again, trying to drown out the uncomfortable with hope that people would see the pre-pubescent fuzz, hear my slowly dropping voice, and at least know some semblance of my identity.

But still, it was uncomfortable watching people try to place me, panicking over which bathroom to use, feeling like an alien because with a chest this big and a mustache I couldn’t imagine people seeing me the way I needed them to. I could make the uncomfortable very quiet, but it still decided to throw my brain into a panic at the worst moments.

And now, here I am, on the cusp of (if all goes according to plan) finally fucking getting rid of the uncomfortable living on my chest.

I’m terrified I’ll walk into the hospital tomorrow and they’ll turn me away for one reason or another.

But more than anything, I am hopeful to be walking into a life with one less thing (well, two less things) to be uncomfortable with. I’m not saying it will fix me or cure me or give me everything I’ve always wanted, but I can tell you that I’ll walk a little taller, look in the mirror a little more often and sigh with relief, pull out the shirts that were too tight around my chest, and put so many awful memories of uncomfortable behind me.

I want to say I’m thankful for what my chest has given me, but those memories are buried beneath all the panic attacks and way-too-tight sports bras and baggy clothing. Maybe they’ll pop up later.

For now, I’m saying farewell to uncomfortable and I am so, so ready to see what’s next for me, trying to love my body, even though it’s hard.