“I’m doing something I don’t like that I’m doing,” I told my spouse. I’d emerged from the bedroom and was in the kitchen, washing my hands.
“Ok,” he said.
“Can I tell you about it?” I asked.
“Yeah. Please do,” he said.
“Well, remember when I told you long time ago, I think my breasts are really pretty, but no one cares? And I wanted people to think they’re pretty. And you asked, how would I know if people think they’re pretty, because people don’t usually talk about things like that, unless they’re together?”
“Yeah,” my spouse said.
“And then when ______ came here, and we had that time in bed, he liked them. He thought they were pretty, and he liked them maybe for their responsiveness also. He was getting off on them. So that’s what I wanted–to have my breasts appreciated. But then it turned out horrible, since I loved him so much, he rejected me the next day, and it was devastatingly harmful.”
“Yeah,” my spouse said; he knew all about that. My spouse was the one picking me up off the floor every day, figuratively speaking, during that entire ordeal and for weeks afterward.
“I’m thinking about it too much! These 20 or 30 minutes or however long, in bed with this guy–they are way too real for me. I remember the whole thing! He probably doesn’t remember it at all. It was nothing to him!” I said.
my breasts are mine
“Yeah,” my spouse said. I was sitting in my computer chair then, and my spouse was standing nearby, feeling sorry for me.
“I don’t want to look at my breasts and think of him! My breasts are mine! That’s it! Maybe for you also,” I said.
“Right–they’re yours,” my spouse said.
“I don’t give a fuck what he thought of my breasts. Or thinks of my breasts. I don’t want to care about that! God, I hate thinking about him, when I look at my own body,” I said.
“Ok, yeah; I hear that,” my spouse said.
“I’ve been thinking about him lately, and I don’t like it! I can love him however, or feel however I feel, as long as my behavior is ok. But–no! His opinion of me is nothing to me. I don’t care. Really I don’t want to care,” I said.
“Yeah,” my spouse said, sympathetic.
“I feel all this pain about him, and then I think of my mom. I miss her really bad,” I said. “It’s too connected. I needed the family love. I thought I could get it from him, but I couldn’t.”
Later we were in the car driving on the freeway. I’d been troubled more about the thing I was doing that I didn’t like.
“Can I tell some stuff to myself, and you validate it, at the end?” I asked my spouse.
“Yeah, definitely,” he said. We’ve done this practice before.
“Ok, thank you,” I said. “I don’t care what ______ thinks of my breasts. His opinion means nothing to me. I don’t care about his opinion of my body, my art, my life–anything. His opinion is not my business, and I’m not going to think about what he liked and didn’t like about me. It doesn’t matter. At all.”
My spouse made some small affirmative “mm hmm” sounds as he drove and listened to me.
“Nothing I gave was enough–nothing could really impress him. Nothing I could do or give could be enough that he would love me. There was none of that, for me. I don’t care about the opinion of anyone who would come here and have some closeness with me, then abandon me,” I said.
That’s when I started to cry. The word abandon felt intense to say. He was still our house guest, here physically, but emotionally he was nowhere to be found. I was on my own.
“That’s not ok,” I continued. “My breasts have nothing to do with him. My breasts are mine, and the way I feel about them is what matters. That’s it. ______ can go fuck himself.”
I cried more and blew my nose. “I’m not going to blame myself anymore, for what I need. I have total respect for my needs. Some irresponsible asshole is not welcome to my body.”
We were on a part of the freeway I didn’t expect. “Did we miss our exit?” I asked.
“No,” my spouse said
“Oh, ok,” I said. “Can you validate all that?”
“Yes. That is absolutely true,” my spouse said. “What anyone else thinks doesn’t matter.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Your breasts are yours, and it’s not ok for anyone to treat you like that,” he added.
“Thank you,” I said.
We exited the freeway. I was looking at my phone and verified that was the right exit.
I took this picture of myself at a hotel when we were on a long trip. The light from the window felt warm.
I have a lot of healing to do. If only the painful house guest was the only person to use me, or harm me by taking advantage of how much I loved them. Men have been violating my body since I was a child. It goes way, way back.
Being honest with myself and others about how I feel is a step. Thank you for hearing my truth and seeing the sunshine on my shoulder.