Not long after I had started wearing skirts publicly someone at church asked me an important question: "Have you thought of chicken fillets? That's what I use." The person who asked was cis-gender and was wanting to say that using them is OK, because plenty of women use them. No. I hadn't thought of that. In the amazing rush of coming out to myself and going full time two months later, somehow I'd missed thinking of buying someone to give me the appearance of an obvious bust, the appearance of breasts that could have been there for years.
So. I bought breast inserts. I bought bras of the right size to hold the inserts in place and wore them with pride. All of a sudden, the public Clare went from being flat chested to having C cup fake boobs that plenty of people told her looked good.
They really helped with confidence. Because you know that when the idiots are staring at the shape of your fantastic chest they're not looking so much at your manly looking face so won't throw abuse at you as much. Unless they look up and think they've just accidentally fancied a bloke and start worrying about their own sexuality. At least that was the mental theory that boosted my confidence - whether it had any basis in truth is an entirely different matter.
But the time has come to change.
For the last couple of days I have ditched those inserts. I've been walking with my chest being the shape it currently is naturally. Yes. This really is an entire blog post about my breasts. There will be no photos included!
So. Why? Why have I taken the step of putting aside those confidence building, good looking, breast forms? Am I mad? Do I want to start getting more abuse again? Why, Clare? Why? Isn't your life hard enough?
Three reasons.
One: For the good of my own health.
I've now been taking oestrogen every day for seven months. The dose is still low - in fact it's still lower than what the normal start dose would be in the USA. And roughly two months ago I started to receive implants of goserelin, which is an anti-androgen. Basically, it blocks the production of testosterone (and of oestrogen too but that doesn't affect me).
The hormone treatment is having an effect. I am going through the soreness that any pubescent girl goes through when their breasts grow. And the inserts affect this. Yep, it all gets painful at times. Not that I'm complaining, just laughing at the pain because it means the hormones are doing their job.
The inserts I have are designed to fit over breasts that aren't growing - either because someone wants to add to what they naturally have, or because someone has had a mastectomy and wants to appear to still have their previous appearance.
That's no good for me because my breasts are growing. That process has begun, though just as in any other female puberty it will take years to complete. (Too much information?! If that's the case, why didn't you stop reading when warned at the start?!) The inserts, because of what they're designed for have a concave back. And that's no good. To press growing breasts into them is to try to force them into a shape that they shouldn't have. And now they're growing there is less room in that bra so the pressure is greater resulting in increased risk of growing misshapen breasts.
So for my own health - and my own comfort too because any woman can tell you that extra constant pressure on growing breasts isn't exactly a blissful physical experience - I have decided to ditch the inserts, regardless of how that changes my appearance or increases the perceived risks. ("Perceived" is probably the right word, rather than "actual".)
Two: Passing. Passing. Passing.
Readers of this blog will know that I recently have had to come to terms with being autistic, after so many years of denial. This process has taught me so much and affected me in ways that I'll be working through for a long time.
I always knew that I had a tendency to rock, to stim, to do some of those typically stereotypical autistic things. And I felt terrible about them and did everything I could to not do any of them. Don't rock Clare. Don't stim. Stay still. Stay very, very still in case the autism detecting T-Rex in your head sees you and devours you. (Yes, autistic people CAN invent metaphor and play with words! Even while often being over-literal about anyone else's metaphors!)
What I have noticed as I have begun to let go and let myself rock and pace and move and play with stim toys and so on - and I know that I have only begun, not finished - is that holding myself still was bloody knackering. Letting go has been challenging but it's also being a source of freedom and I have a lot more energy through not fighting myself every moment of every day, consciously or subconsciously.
What I've realised is that for all this years I have been trying to pass as neurotypical. And it's been such hard work even when denying my as yet unofficial diagnosis. Passing. Passing. Passing.
And that realisation has come as something of a revelation and it's affected the way I can treat my gender presentation too. Because I've been trying to pass there too - pass as reasonably cis-normative so I don't get abused, to look like what other people might think a woman should look like, so that I can claim the same privileges that any cisgender woman is automatically given.
With the autism I decided that, as much as I can manage it, I shouldn't try to pass anymore. I should just be myself. And that should be easy because I haven't got a lot to lose in my life and I know that the important parts of what I do have - my family, my church, my friends - are not going to be lost if I learn to be openly autistic, openly the person I am behind the masks.
With the autism I just haven't got the energy to pass. I haven't got the energy to put on that act all day anymore. To do so would be more crippling than it was when I didn't even realise how much I was doing it. And I haven't got the desire to pass either. I keep reading the writings of people who are proudly autistic and they have been influencing me so much.
So with the autism I came up with a catchphrase. I penned it and proclaim it. I used it in the last post on this blog. I am massively thankful for the people who brought me to the point of proclaiming it. And bear in mind that I never used to swear and would never have let such a phrase cross my lips in the past. But ...
"FUCK PASSING"
Easier said than done.
"Fuck Passing"
Because not passing is not conforming. It's a risk.
"Fuck Passing"
It's a letting go of security, of respect, of automatic privilege.
"Fuck Passing"
Yes, that's easier said than done.
"F.U.C.K P.A.S.S.I.N.G"
Because I'm still on the path of discovering what I am and what not passing might mean.
Yeah.
Fuck Passing.
I'm done with it.
I choose the harder life of standing out.
I choose the easier life of being free.
And that's fed back into my gender. It's easy for me to say because I generally pass pretty well anyway. I look reasonably like what people think a "woman" looks like. But for gender too. Fuck Passing. I'm not going to get into all the discussions that could be made but these days my use of make up is minimal - far less than a lot of women wear every day. And I realised. In order to stay true to my little obscene slogan, the breast inserts had to go.
3. Women. What are they anyway?
To be brief: Breasts do not make a woman.
That's obvious of course. But if it's so obvious, why should I wear fake breasts? Doesn't that imply somewhere along the line a view that breasts DO make THIS woman? Aren't I just falling into some completely bullshit view of what a proper woman should be?
Yes. At least to some degree - beyond all my concerns of security and self-confidence - that's what I've been doing.
Yes. At least to some degree - beyond all my concerns of security and self-confidence - that's what I've been doing.
So those breast inserts have to go in order to not stand against the misogynist world that would define a woman by her cup size.
That might be a bit radical. And I know full well that in some ways that leads to questions about hormones and eventual surgery. But there are other issues involved there and it's far more complicated than any discussion of sticking bits of silicon in your bra in order to appear "normal" or "acceptable".
So. There you are. My chest is worn as it comes. And I walk with pride because this is who I am and this is what I am and this is the healthy, risky way to be.
And thus I had to buy new bras. Those C cup bras will have to be put away, at least for the moment. Who knows what the future will bring and what the medical treatments will do? And thus I join the moans of all other women: "Why are bras so expensive?" and "Why doesn't anywhere cheap sell them in my size?" Honestly, I tried Primark. Would anything fit? Not a chance in hell!
It's a new day for my boobs. What you see now is far less than what you would have seen a week ago. But what you see is mine. All mine. And they are what they are and will be what they will be.
Fuck Passing. Because the only person I want to pass as is me.
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