I Feel Ya', Girl.

I'm not sure where I came across this picture. It was a while ago, and I was probably pretty stoned when I saved it to my computer. But it stuck with me. It's almost like someone was sitting in my bedroom, sketchpad in hand. 

So far, I've shared a lot of pictures with you all, of me in clothing I've become too large to wear. And it's all been in good fun, and I look forward to posting more. This is good for me, therapeutically and otherwise. If that wasn’t the case, if I hadn’t gotten to the place in my life where I can feel like coming out from under this shroud I’ve been under, I wouldn't be doing it. 

But this level of acceptance (and it is still a journey) hasn't come for free, and it hasn’t come easily. 

I wouldn’t characterize myself as the most energetic person in the world, but one day a little more than a year ago, a familiar lethargy began to settle in. Imagine mild flu-like symptoms and mix them up with some pretty hard-core abdominal cramping and the complete lack of will to get out of bed and do anything, and you’ll have a rough idea.

The energy being sapped from my body was one thing. But there was also an intense depression and anxiety that was creeping its way back into my mind. Maybe that’s the real reason I didn’t want to get out of bed and preferred to keep the blinds drawn and the door closed. Whatever undiagnosable combination of hormones that was coursing through my blood had reappeared, and my body was beginning the process of betraying me again.

This process had happened before, at least a couple times a year. When my breasts were growing, it wasn’t a slow and steady process. Instead, they surged in the form of what I can only call “spurts.” Some of them were small stints of growth that would only last a few days; others were a bit longer. This spurt, the one from a year ago, was the most recent one, and it was by far the most severe. 

Since it has been a while, I imagine that, maybe, that last huge growth period was my body’s equivalent of a grand finale. The last of whatever imbalance working its way out of my system. I can’t be sure. There’s just no way to know if that’s the case, and for me, that has been a consistent point of anxiety, lingering in the back of my head like a little monkey. 

But it’s gotten better. I’ve actually found a lot of support, oddly enough, from people in the cancer community. There’s a similarity between what I’ve been going through, and what someone who is in remission goes through — the worst of it is over; your body has stopped rebelling against itself; the storm has died down, and you can resume some level of normalcy. You can’t be quite sure the cancer isn’t going to come back at some point down the line, sort of in the same way that I can’t be sure that I’m ever going to be, truly, out of the woods. So, you can live your life with a myopic view and tense muscles, or you can do what we all strive to do, which is to just live in the present and enjoy every moment that you can to its fullest. 

Cancer and “real-life breast expansion.” Seems like a macabre comparison, doesn’t it? I think most of us have been affected by cancer at some point in our lives — we all, at least, know someone. I hesitate to lump myself into the same group as those brave survivors, because I’ve also been coming to the realization that I am fortunate: my condition is not, nor has it ever been, life-threatening. But I find kindred spirits in those I’ve spoken to — we all, at least, know the importance of coming to terms that things will never be the same again, and of embracing the “new normal.” 

These last few thoughts are ones that I have come to, in broad strokes, over the last year as I’ve been getting back on my feet. I feel fortunate, as well, that I’ve had a chance to find my balance after what seemed like three solid years of spinning around in circles. 

But rewind the tape a little, and we’re back to a different Heather. One who didn’t have the benefit of how far I’ve come since then, and one who was coming off the tale end of going through the fucking wringer.

Lying in bed, this Heather stared blankly at the ceiling as she vainly tried to ignore the telltale, swollen warmth brewing in her chest. A deep flushed pink, her breasts are so tender that even pressing her fingertips into the taut flesh causes her to wince. Lying on her stomach was something that became difficult years before; lying on her side only forced her boobs to compete for space that didn’t exist, and to painfully press into one another to the point where rolling over was a delicate, but Herculean effort. Lying on her back, propped up in a nest of carefully arranged pillows, was the only remaining option. 

For two weeks, this bed bound existence was Heather’s life. The air outside was still seasonably cool, but beads of fevered sweat still trickled down Heather’s face, neck, chest. She had a fan next to her bed that she seldom used —the evaporative cooling caused her to shiver. At least when she was covered in moist sweat, she could lie still so as not to disturb the greedy beasts that had come to define her physique. 

During these quiet hours, Heather hesitated to look down at herself and what she had become. What she was continuing to become. Though the constant heat and abundance of privacy negated the need for a blanket of any kind, she still preferred to keep herself covered with a thin bed sheet. At least then, she could imagine, the mounds rolling off her ribs could and onto their perches atop two couch cushions pirated from the living room could be confused with something else. Heather had no control over what was happening to her, so the preservation of some aspect of her modesty, at least, gave the illusion. She was trapped in the paradox of wanting to run away, but how can you run away from something that’s literally attached to you?

She had exhausted the entire catalogue that Netflix had to offer, but even the shows she had decided to revisit blurred together into a mental static. The distraction didn’t stop the thoughts from flooding through her mind.

Should I go to the hospital?

No. She’d done that before, the spurt before last. Not only could they not help her, but she had grown to resent even the well-intentioned care of the nice nurse who checked in on her. They were unable to treat her anyway, so she couldn’t find any reason to stay.

Should I call a friend?

No. She didn’t want anyone to see her like this.

How big and I going to get?

She never imagined in a hundred years that her breasts would have grown large enough to rest in her lap when she sat down. Assuming had failed her before, and there was no reason to beleive it wasn’t going to fail her again. Which always led her to another thought, one that rung in the back of her mind frequently. But after day 10 in her bed, the sound had become deafening.

What if they don’t stop this time?

That thought tended to lead her into a dark place. She tried not to entertain it very often, because it would open up a floodgate of new questions. Will I be able to drive a car anymore? What if my skin doesn’t keep up? How big will I have to be before I’m not able to stand up? Or walk? Will I ever be able to go out into public again? Who would come visit me? What if I get so big that I need help? Who will take care of me? 

This potential future became so glaring, that even shutting her eyes couldn’t keep it from her seeing it. Once a person who thrived off her own independence, the darkest hours of night had her living this potential reality, over and over again: she was going to be a homebound freak of nature, the little amount of money she was able to earn would have to be turned over directly to a hired caretaker who would gather her food, help her bathe, shift her around in the bed that would have become her prison. 

It was ridiculous, she would think. But was it? Hadn’t she already reached a level of ridiculous that she never would have imagined before? She struggled to imagine a time when she was actually a little curious about the changes her body was undergoing. But that curiosity turned to horror — she simply didn’t know what she was capable of anymore, and she was terrified that she might have to discover it. 

After two weeks, the fever broke. My breasts didn’t feel like enormous bruises anymore, but they had gotten more enormous. The hurricane had passed, and I was still there, but changed. A new normal.

But I was flat broke. The few pieces of clothing I owned that were passable on me before, now looked obscene, or the hem was so taut that I couldn’t pull it over my new body. The only things that fit were oversized, low-hanging tops that most people would consider only passable as a nightshirt. My bra selection was how hopelessly outdated, so I made do with a tight T shirt so I didn’t jiggle like an earthquake when I walked. 

And when I saw this picture for the first time, I felt for the woman in it. I had been her, sitting on the edge of my bed, a pile of ill-fitting clothing next to me. Naked, with my breasts resting heavily and firm in my lap, I crossed my arms around myself, hugging away the uncertainty of what I was going to do next.