I started going to the gym again. It’s been a while, as about two months ago I got sick. And then Katrina died. After that, my energy for anything was pretty much zapped. But we started going again. This was after a bike ride that nearly kicked me to the ground, a short one, even.
Every time I go to the gym, I enter armed with incentives. Sometimes, my incentive(s) are simple and other times, they are more complex. (And by complex I mean all over the place, randomly set up just so I can muster the strength to complete my goal.) Some girls come in with bridal magazines. Others think about the Cheetos they had for lunch and how they washed them down with some cake.
On Monday, I went to the gym thinking of Katrina. It’s been months since I’ve really had my heart rate up and considering it was her weak heart that claimed her life; I figured I would run for her, that she would be my incentive. Katrina loved going to the gym. And in my head, since she can no longer do this, I would try and do my best and do it for her. Katrina would become my drive—her heart would. So I ran. I ran and ran and ran for her and then I ran and ran to spite my breasts, my stupid breasts.
It would appear that I forgot my sports bra at home. And I figured it would be OK considering I had a very supportive regular bra on. I was so wrong.
The first half of my run was wonderful. I didn’t become tired. My knee was holding up. When Toby Joe came over to talk to me, I could actually carry on a conversation without panting. It was a great run. (Thank you, Katrina.) About half way through my run, things started to go south. As I sweated more, the fabric became “looser” (that’s really the only way I can describe it). As the fabric became looser, my boobs became freer. They began to bust free (yeah, bust) and that’s when things became ugly.
Instead of stopping the charade, I continued on all the while CURSING at them. (Please excuse my language.)
You stupid fuckers. I hate you. Stop bouncing. I will cut you.
It was as if the twins became human and I was their keeper. I spoke to them as if they were visitors to my body forgetting entirely about the fact that these wicked things really do own me. They make my life a bit harder and I often have no choice but to succumb to them entirely.
And that’s when I entered the ugly cycle of wanting to hate myself. I went from feeling elated that I was equipped with such a positive incentive, to feeling ashamed that I could turn from good thoughts to horrible thoughts so quickly. What an ugly mind.
(Insert more swearing and a lot more personal body hatred.)
I completed my goal and then went to talk to Toby. He was doing some upper body exercises when I interrupted him.
I hate my breasts. I really do. I hate them. I want them gone. Screw shooting up abortion clinics, I am going to gun down women who have breasts enlargements. I hate them, too. Why would a girl add this to herself?
You’re insane. Don’t talk to me, I don’t want people to think I know you.
I laughed.
I’m going to go shower.
And that’s when I realized what I had done to myself.
In the shower, the open blister-like wound was born. As the hot water hit my chest, a blood-curdling scream hit the inside of my head. The pain was so intense, I became a little weak in the knees and for a second, I thought I might pass out. It would seem that the under wire rubbed my chest raw. But that wasn’t the worst part, no. The worst part was where the front clasp once sat. Right in the center of my breasts was an open sore. This is where the plastic piece rubbed me raw. I started to cry. But it’s OK because in the shower no one can tell.
Once out and toweled off, I took a few tissues and folded them up. I put one beneath the clasp and a few more beneath the under wire. As I sat there, I couldn’t help but laugh at the possible conclusion one might come to at the glimpse of my stuffing tissues down my shirt. Oh, would one assumption be the furthest from the truth.
Maybe if I run really fast next time, I can leave them behind entirely. Or maybe if I run for a really long time, they will chafe them down, chiseling them away to nothing.
(From now on, all money made by google ads will be spent on my future breast reduction.)
Mihow 
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