I’m seriously sick of binding. I think it’s affecting my health. For sure it isn’t doing anything good for this damn dowager’s hump. And I can’t remember the last time I took a full breath. My skin is red from rubbing, I’m exasperated and depressed. On top of that, it is very unsettling (unnerving, disturbing) to have such a distorted image of one’s own body. Very similar to what anorectics deal with. I look in the mirror and see something completely different than what I expect to see, what I envision in my mind’s eye. Apparently, also something different than what others see when they look at me.
It’s startling, jolting, depressing, confusing and more than a little irritating. I’m spending way too much time thinking about, focusing on, agonizing over, obsessing about this. Not to mention the ridiculous amount of time in front of the mirror.
“what are you doing?”
“I’m adding more binding.”
“Why?! Hali, you’re completely flat. If you were any flatter you’d be concave.”
“Fine. Do whatever you want. I’m not trying to trick you into having boobs.”
Are you kidding me?! Somebody stop the salad spinner so I can get out. How did I get here, having these absurd conversations with my spouse? It really is like an anorexic nightmare. Once I saw how I looked flat chested, and it felt so right, I had to continue to make it happen. But then I could still feel the breasts underneath the binding, so I had to tighten them, add to them, layer them. The more I scrutinized my image in the mirror the more distorted it became.
I’m calling the surgeon.