Dirty Pillows

Today it's all about the Dirty Pillow Feathers. Dirty Pillows, as I remember it, comes from the movie 'Carrie'. It's what the main characters' abusive mother called breasts. Feathers, on this blog, will refer to the outer view of the Phoenix, body image issues and such. Hence today's title Dirty Pillow Feathers

    My own breasts are...abundant. I sprouted a C cup at 11 yrs old a little while after getting my period. They have always been noticeable. I never had too much of a problem with them outside of clothes shopping for a girl's body and grown ups bust size. I learned pretty quickly to dress with care because what seemed pretty, frilly, and innocent on my friends or in the store quickly became slutty, 'too grown', or embarrassing on my bust size. 

    For example, I've always worn a bra. Always. Even to bed. Everyday, for my entire life since getting these beautiful chest mods. My first bra was a B cup to be replaced six uncomfortable weeks later with a C cup. I didn't even find out what a training bra was until I was 20 and saw the classic film, 'The Trouble with Angels'. Which is an excellent film by the way and spurred my rather short lived but oft re-visited desire to become a nun.  Now, most women are shocked if and when they find out that I wear a bra 24/7 365 days a year for what is now 20+ years. For most it's inconceivable. But for me it is just life. 

    One of the reasons for the ever present bra is the physical side effects of  having such a abundant bust size. Basically, they flop (ouch), bounce (painfully), squish and get 'caught'(again painfully and also the reason behind the at night bra), and escape into view at inopportune moments. They are never perky. They didn't even start off perky. I'm not even sure I understand what perky is. Hence the bras and careful shopping. 

    All of this was jumped up a notch when my mother made it clear that sagging breasts was the most disgusting repulsive thing in all of the world. I'm going to allow that her intent was not  to horribly traumatize me and I know for a fact that she was actually talking about herself (she of the almost B cup). But comparing her not quite B cups to National Geographic pictures and cow udders when I was standing there at 13 with C (verging on D) cups made the idea of going without a bra ever, an impossible idea to me. 

    I just accepted that my breast would never look like anyone else. I mean, in reality a girl doesn't get to see another females’ breasts except maybe her mom or sisters. I just knew my naked breasts didn't look like hers or even like any clothed version I had ever seen. They were too big on my little girl frame to look like anyone but a porn star and it would be many years til I knew what a porn star looked like. And they sloped; they were never ever round like balloons or pointed the way everybody else looked to me. All I knew for sure was that wearing a bra kept me from looking like a disgusting 'primitive' or animal. 

   Meanwhile I began associating fashion with sexuality. Since everyone (mom included) looked at me and saw a pair of walking knockers, if I wore anything other than baggy shapeless things, that is the conclusion I came up with. When I refused to hide in my clothes   I accepted the resulting sexualization of my persona as a result. Everything became about sex, or the avoidance of, the protection from, the 'inviting' of, the 'supposed' desire for sex, all of it was factored into a part of my physical appearance. Getting dressed to go out wearing a scoop necked t-shirt? Well lecture on the dangers of sex and even possible questions about contraceptives were sure to be included. At the breakfast table in a fitted sweater? Well don't you look ready for anything! Show up at a mall filled with preteens wearing a turtleneck and guys followed me and girls eyes cut daggers at me and even my friends wanted to 'split up and meet back'. One look at the breasts and suddenly I'm not a person. I'm not even the person you were just talking to in such an innocuous way before I took off my jacket.

      What I learned to do is ignore it all. Hide them as best I could (bless you 'cross your heart') and wait out the reaction from anyone I met or talked to. It's what I do even today. If I just stay quiet for a few minutes, the eyes would venture back up and they would remember who I was. If they didn't or the person made some sexual advance or comment then they weren't my friends or worth talking to anyway. 

   There were sacrifices though. I learned to give up hugs. I still can't really hug people. At a family gathering an uncle took me aside after a hug to say that I should 'Be Careful' and not hug men since it pressed my breasts up against them and gave them the wrong idea. I was 11. Then a female cousin said that she didn't like family gathering sleepovers that I was at because she had had sex dreams about my breasts last time even though she liked boys. That scared me more than the uncle, that the breasts affected even girls! So now, I can't hug anybody without having to keep this 'appropriate' physical distance between us that kinda defeats the whole damn purpose of hugging someone. And these were the family members! Dirty Pillows, indeed.

   Now here in the present day I realize that I have retreated into a defensive position when it comes to clothes. Basically it is a refusal to wear anything that even I consider pretty accompanied by the angry expectation that anyone 'worth' knowing would 'like' me without me having to 'flash' everything or ‘blindly follow fads’. Uh-huh, yeah.  I went in my closet today and realized I don't actually own anything I think is pretty. Somewhere along the way I gave up trying to find pretty things that didn't flash cleavage or outline just how big the rack is. BTW in my crapsack world cleavage is bad. It is automatic slut. So, I gave up. The last clothing I bought was actually from the men's department because their t-shirts have those round small necklines and are bigger around the chest area. So sad.

    The idea of going out somewhere just to socialize or meet new people is stymied by the idea that anything I have to put on is inherently plain, old, shapeless, outdated (no one lusts after grandma librarian!) or well...sackcloth. I can't actually remember the last time I went out and bought clothes for myself because I liked the clothes or liked how I look in the clothes. Buying and wearing clothes that hide or de-emphasize my breasts, curves, body as a whole is unhealthy. I mean really the next step is a burka, no offense to our Muslim sisters who have chosen to wear those. Not many get to choose though. Well it's a new Year and Here's my choice...

    While I don't have the money to rush out and buy a new wardrobe I will vow to go forth and supply the emerging phoenix with at least one new Feather. It must be pretty. It must be colorful. I must like it. Functionality will not be a consideration, nor appropriateness.  And I will wear it!