I don’t like them. I know I am not alone in that.
Well, I don’t like them on me. On other people they are fine.
On me they are the Himalayan mountains, they are the moobs, the chesticles: you name it I’ve probably used that word in some form to describe them.
Part of the reason I am in not exactly great shape is because of them. I know that if I lost weight chances are I’d have smaller chest growths. But I don’t feel safe in the gym, even when binding. And binding isn’t exactly the greatest idea when exercising. The other part of the reason is a myriad of medical issues surrounding feet, but I shalnt get into that because that is opening a completely different can of fish.
I bind more than I should. I’ll be the first to admit that about me. Ideally I would wear my binder for the 8 hours that is reccomended. But I spend 8 hours at school and then I have a selection of various clubs, extra lessons, groups and other reasons why I have to be outside. I’ve been known to be in my binder from 6am til 10 or even 11pm. This is awful and I wouldn’t reccomend this to anyone. My only saving grace is that I try to avoid wearing my binder on the weekend. Of course, that gets screwed up when I have performances and workshops and other reasons to be outside.
I would love to have top surgery. I’m not even scared about the scars because anything would be better than having this literal weight on my chest. Unfortunately the various doctors I have seen have all told me the same thing, I have to wait until I am in adult services. I will presumably get changed over to adult services when I am 18 but at the rate my transition is going (after three years I am no closer to testosterone, which they are allowed to perscribe on the NHS from age 16 or sometimes even younger) it looks like top surgery is afar away dream that won’t be realised until I am 21 or older.
That thought is depressing. Especially with how much dysphoria I have from my chest and how it restricts my life. Especially with how sometimes I get so depressed I almost take the scissors/knife to my chest (I know that that would not solve anything and only make things worse but sometimes I get so desperate).
I wish so much to be normal. I feel like wanting to smack anyone who tells me it is my own fault for “choosing to be trans”… Why would I choose to feel like this?