This starts way way way before babies. Way before OH even. Or way before I knew any boys…or at least before I KNEW any boys.
I was a sensitive child (read “cry baby loser”). I’m not sure what triggered this. Maybe my dad leaving. Maybe certain teachers encouraging competition through comparison. I don’t know. Maybe the last statement was unfair. It was the 80s. Anyway, puberty hit in the early 90s and other girls were beginning to discover boys makeup and pushup bras. I, on the other hand was being a flat-chested music geek with a HUGE crush on my music teacher. My venture into makeup started and stopped with the mantra ” You can never have too much black eye liner”. I became body conscious and self-conscious and this lead to a bout of clinical depression, diagnosed whilst I was at college.
Most of it was body image related. I hated the way I looked. The bit I hated more than anything else though, the bit that I believed made me ugly and disgusting and vile to the strange boy creatures was my lack of gigantic bazongas. It didn’t help that the other things that were supposed to happen were also delayed somewhat.
I felt let down by mother nature. I tried everything I could to make them bigger. I stuffed my bra, I bought super dooper extra plunge padded cleavage givers…yet still..nothing from my AA cups.
By the time I was 22, I had mostly recovered from the depression (in as much as you can). I’d left my first boyfriend for the last time and I’d put on weight after a battle with an eating disorder caused by a desire to self-harm. Yes, I was that fucked up. As OHs sister would say, I had a serious case of the mentals.
Boobies had paid the price. They disappeared completely when I was at my worst. The weight gain had given them a new lease of life…and I was looking good. A cups suited me.
Failboobs not so much. I started wearing tight tops to accent my pert girls and bagged myself a keeper (OH).
Then I fell pregnant…