W
hen I was 16 years old, I read
an article about Modern
Family star Ariel Winter’s
breast reduction surgery, which took her
from a size 32F to a 34D. “It’s amazing
to finally feel right,” she said in an
interview with Glamour. “This is how
I was supposed to be.” Two years later,
I sat on my boyfriend’s bed, my arms
defensively crossed over my own 30F
chest, realizing that I didn’t feel right at
all.
“Are you still planning on getting that
breast reduction? I thought about it when
I saw how bad the stretch marks are,” he
asked, gesturing to my naked chest.
“Maybe,” I swallowed the word
carefully as though it could break.
Instead of reveling in an intimate
moment, he was pointing out the ugly
marks on my breasts — my biggest
insecurity.
Were
his
words
from
moments before — calling me sexy — all
pretend? I pressed two thin arms over
my heavy chest as my face grew red and
I fought the urge to cry. I wished he’d
never look at me again.
He didn’t realize how deep his words
cut, they burned inside of me for weeks.
He was 19, older than me, and the
first person who felt entitled to have
an opinion on my body. We were the
definition of “it’s complicated” and the
on and off state of our relationship made
my potential breast reduction surgery
something I didn’t want to discuss with
him. His words made me sink into his
navy-blue sheets in humiliation.
My body— a feminine, imperfect thing
— was worth nothing to him but a dig at
its imperfections. I felt like I was nothing
beyond my boobs.
After that, I knew I’d have the
surgery. A size 30F bra on a 5-foot-3
frame, I wanted to live unrestricted by
the attributes disrupting my every day
— both physically and emotionally. I
needed for someone, anyone, to see past
them. When I first met that boyfriend, I
believed he wanted to be with me past
my chest. Yet he was still surprised
when I told him I wanted a breast
reduction. Like so many of my peers
and acquaintances, he wondered why
a young girl with a small frame would
want to erase her breasts — something
other people pay to have enlarged.
Despite how he treated me, I had
a weak spot for his humor and dark
brown eyes. They’d won me over
instantly — but 6 months later, I was
desperately struggling to become the
person he wanted, not realizing this
was unattainable. Between the internal
struggle with my physical appearance
and the yo-yo of our toxic relationship, I
worried I was nothing but a body.
At 18, I became an expert at hiding my
breasts and feelings — in life and social
media. On Instagram, I refrained from
posting anything revealing. I wanted
my life to appear untroubled and light
as air. As I struggled with my body, I
hid behind feigned smiles and a facade
of confidence. With a Big Ten college
education, sorority sisters and an older
boyfriend, I made myself look like I was
happy. If you vaguely knew me through
images on your phone screen, you never
would’ve known that I couldn’t get
dressed in the morning because of the
internal battle I was fighting.
Immediately following our break-
up we reunited in a vicious cycle. The
constant push and pull of our relationship
had me in a fragile emotional state. I
dreaded waking up because I dreaded
getting dressed. I couldn’t run, because
wearing two sports bras left bloody
marks on my skin. I couldn’t go to the
beach because bathing suits just didn’t
fit. Shopping — from searching for prom
dresses to trying to find a shirt to fit me
— became a nightmare I avoided. My
friends and my boyfriend simply did not
understand. But on social media, I could
be instantly desired, liked and affirmed
without struggle.
After he mentioned the stretch marks,
I posted a picture of myself at a football
game in September, still tan from
summer, smiling. It was the first time I
used Instagram as a ploy to make believe
my sadness away. I didn’t even realize
what I was doing until after the photo
uploaded and I watched it gather likes
from my screen.
In the photo, I didn’t look like a girl
who despised her body and felt like a
stranger in her skin. The warm glow of
the screen hit my face and I felt elated.
I could imagine him, looking at the
picture and falling in love with me,
instantly regretting his harsh words.
Whenever I was insecure about the body
that subjected me to sexualization, or
remembered I had stretch marks and
imperfections that made me unlovable, I
posted something and pretended to feel
OK.
My profile seemed untroubled —
there was no room for mental illness
or melancholia. It was my drug. Snap,
scroll, post, affirm, feeling refreshed as
I was bathed in the affection of digital
hearts. I was more than huge boobs — I
was worth commenting on.
On May 4, 2017 I had the six-hour
surgery, making the choice to change my
life. My mother and father waited, full of
support and excitement in the lobby, and
when I woke up and opened my eyes, my
mother and I both burst into tears. I will
forever be indebted to her for advocating
for me during the process of insurance
coverage and recovery. I felt freed from
the oppression my chest had caused, but
it still hadn’t been enough to free my
mind. There was still weight there.
The relationship had ended in April, yet
I hadn’t stopped obsessively monitoring
if he’d viewed or liked my Instagram
page, or whether I was worth a number
of likes or comments. Even at a new and
improved size 32B, 7 pounds lifted off
me, I had stretch marks. I lacked the
confidence I needed to end my reliance
on social media as a faulty crutch for
self-love. I craved the affirmation that
I received with each post; I wanted to
prove that I was more than a body.
What I didn’t realize? It wasn’t the
world’s love I was after; it was my own.
When I recovered, I put on a tank top.
I was giddy in the way it fell gracefully
over my new boobs. Though I still donned
a clunky surgical bra and rows of deep
red scars, I felt beautiful. My mom took a
picture of me in sweatpants and the top,
my face still puffy from the anesthesia
with no makeup. I considered deleting
the photograph. There was nothing
exceptional or envy-worthy about it. But
it wasn’t faux affirmation I was after
by posting it. It wasn’t meant for an
ex-boyfriend to see and call to profess
his love. I didn’t spend hours selecting a
filter or thinking up captions. I just hit
post, and as I watched the photo upload,
I recognized my right to choose. Just like
with the surgery, I could navigate my
own path because I’d never lose a battle
about my own happiness. I put down my
phone, wrapped my arms around my
chest and exhaled — everything finally
felt right.
Wednesday, January 16, 2019 // The Statement
7B
Wednesday, September 18, 2019 // The Statement
7B
BY ELI RALLO, STATEMENT COLUMNIST
Getting it off my chest
ILLUSTRATION BY MAGGIE HUANG