HOW IT STARTED - 14TH JULY
ok guys, it will be a VERY LONG story, i'm sorry
but i want to be honest with you, from the deepest of my heart
"It's ten to eleven at night, and my fingers start crumpling the jamming keys for this confession. The clock will be 23, of course, but I mentally turn it to 11. I love that number, after all, it's four of the eight digits of my birthday, the drumsticks, as my friends and family used to say. A fortune teller once told me that the number of ones in my date of birth could mean the number of strokes of fate. I can't know if she was right or not, but one (or rather two, haha! you'll understand later) "stroke of fate" I want to finally lose, so I'm writing this post.
It's still a full hour from now, Moscow time, on the 14th. As I recently learned, today is World Non-Binary Personality Visibility Day. Preferring 90% of my life to be in a cool backdrop, silently observing those around me, today I decided to get up on a chair and become visible in front of the brightest spotlight - social media. Dressed mentally in a waterproof cloak, in anticipation of a deluge of tomatoes and other unpleasant substances, I feel afraid, but I will continue anyway, and I will talk to the end.
The fact is, my name is Ias, I will be 30 years old this year, and I am endlessly and colorfully, magnificently unbearably, desperately tired of wearing my chest. And may the first tomato fly right into the center of it.
(I hope you now understand the joke about the two strokes of fate. A left stroke and a right one, of whatever goddamn size. You get it, right?)
Usually in these cases they write something short, sweet and without much detail, with a few card numbers and a smiley face at the end, but I'm not usual and not about short, though I think not everyone wants to read so much text. But I want to say a little more than the classics of such a genre require, because I want to assure you that this is not a temporary insanity, but a long and stony statement - I haven't understood this part of my body since I was about 12, ever since that part, on the basis of hormonal malfunction and early physical maturation, began stretching out my childhood favorite Tom and Jerry t-shirt, turning their cartoon faces into horrifying Bosch-style grimaces.
I didn't understand what it was for, even when I was "in bloom," in my "100% female" period. I pretended to enjoy the compliments on my two breasts, but inside I understood absolutely nothing, and deep down I was furious. Now I understand why.
Many of my partners passionately complimented this part of my body, even somehow made me endure a whole photo shoot, the center of which was not me and my beautiful, slightly asian cut eyes or thick black hair, but them. That's probably the easiest of all the unpleasant things I associate with that part of my body.
I've honestly tried everything. And duckies, and corsets, and sports tops. Participating in live-action role-playing games, dressed up as some kind of dark arts defense professor, I didn't feel like I was suffocating, living on just a euphoric dose every time I looked into the reflective surface and without seeing the two protruding Titanics dragging me to the mental north-ice bottom. It was still visible, though. But I was still happy.
In January 2018, I met my future and current partner, with whom we then repeatedly brought up the topic of his possible T* transition. This included us discussing the possibility of multiple surgeries, including a mastectomy. And back then I felt incredibly proud of not only his willingness to have the surgery itself, but also his willingness to wait, to weigh this decision for years and test, to try on all the options. And I distinctly remember wanting at that moment to make the same decision, to start "contemplating" as well. But I was too afraid (and I am afraid) of surgery, so I did not take this option for myself. I believed that somehow it would "resolve itself".
But when I met someone for the first time in my life who didn't overstep my boundaries and allowed me to be my real self, I was horrified to realize that the real me can't wear a bra. No, can't have even a reason to need it. I still remember that day, when we were going out in the evening, and I was standing in the middle of the hallway, looking at myself in my turtleneck. That lump of tears from not knowing what to do has not been swallowed by me to this day
It's been almost five years. On November 11, I will be thirty. Thirty. It's only now, really, that I realize that I'm ready. And that I can't do it anymore - there are no other options. You might ask, perhaps - why not settle for the gym (I tried) if it would make my breasts smaller? You will be as upset as I was when I realized it was to no avail - the breasts themselves, the mammary glands, alas, would not float away into the bars of the pool even if I moved to live in it, nor would they drain off with my sweat if I settled in the hammam for the winter. Not to mention that the object itself - the breasts - in my probably too logical mind exists for one purpose. To feed the baby. And that option doesn't really fit in my life either - at 25 I thought I hadn't thought enough of it yet. At 29 I have the right to say that both at 25, and at 20, and now I thought enough - I do not plan to have children in my life either. Therefore, I have no one to feed. For everything else there is a phone number, master card, visa or whatever.
Well, what is the point of this story? I need help to save up for this operation. My dream is to face my 30th birthday without breasts, okay, at least on the operating table. It's just under 4 months away and I desperately believe it's possible, even if maybe I should have started screaming for help a little earlier. I've been trying to manage in a more independent way, but with a family of myself, a partner, with two cats, when everyone require food, care, treatment, etc., you can't really run around much. My last work experience finally brought me to my knees, if not worse - not the experience itself, but the sick and toxic influence of it on my mental state. That's why I am not now standing behind the bar of some coffee shop, gathering accounting documents or answering the hotline at the office. I'm insanely jealous (in a healthy way) and proud of those who still don't stop. But my mental health left this channel. However, I can still do something. But that's so funny.
You see, in addition to the unpopular group of people who are not very ok with their bodies, I am also part of a group that seems to be unpopular even with the most unpopular people - I can do the oracle readings, and that's what I did before for a living, and I was doing fine, but stopped one day at the end of February due to the horror that starter.
I did the math..."
aaaaand here it ends. Because what follows is an absolutely fantastic story. In a bad way
I will continue and explain what is happening NOW and what basically happened that brought me here, but in the next post.