International Women's Day: Breast Implant Illness, Theta State & Mom
I am not the only one that grew up hating their gender and chose to do nothing more than continue to hate it.
And I’ve recently been having so many brain breaking conversations about it that it’s hard to continue to think things should be gendered.
However, regardless of my personal beliefs or desires, we still live in a gendered world and regardless if I can speak to the state of gender, I can certainly speak to that.
As someone who has never had or seriously considered breast implants, the recent surge of information and outreach about breast implant illness has had a strangely large effect on me.
I like my tits and always have. They have always looked decent, done their job and asked for very little in return asides from a bit of support. I wish I could be more like my tits.
But the inevitability of gravity vs. fat has never escaped me, or anyone with tits. And I think maybe there is that subconscious comfort of “I can always have them done”.
“I can undo what time, my body and biology have dictated.”
To a degree, sure.
But what is this rise in reality showing us?
Doctors are capitalist assholes?
Women are an easy market?
To me, it says two things:
We are not living the lives we were intended for and as a result are attempting to acquire bodies we were never meant to have.
Biology will always be stronger than humanity.
Disclaimer: I don’t give a fuck what you do with your tits. Make them bigger, make them smaller, cut them off and put them on a shelf. As long as you’re not trying to fuck with mine, I’m not concerned. This is simply the catalyst for a bigger conversation.
What will make you happy?
I was forced into working with more women based on the environment that I was in and then momentum took hold and now I almost exclusively work with women.
Not because I understand them, but because I’ve realized I have a super power that most don’t: I give myself permission to be the woman I want to be.
I eat how I want.
Move how I want.
Fuck how I want.
And always have.
And yes that has gotten me into a world of hurt and trouble before (and not the good kind), but it has also been the thing that everyone has taken note about me; I am not them.
Why am I this way? Because I grew up very isolated and it wasn’t until I attempted to integrate with the general population that I realized I should feel shame and stigma and gender.
I always had to have the blue pencils because the only thing with “Taylor” on it was intended for boys. I didn’t care because I just like blue better. I had no idea I was supposed to care because I was never taught to.
I grew up gangly and geeky and tripping over my own feet and had no idea I should feel different - or even disabled. But I did develop a sense of humour.
I was never told no - for better or worse.
And I was never lead to believe that nudity is nasty.
When I work with women, I see so much of the stigma and shit I was never handed.
I see insecurity that they have carried their whole lives and into their adulthood, marriages and families.
I see the belief they are not good enough, strong enough, sexy enough or just enough.
And it makes me mad. And then I yell. And they seem to like it.
Because I am not yelling judgements or criticism, but encouragement. I want to be the obnoxiously loud inner dialogue that insecure, uncertain women have inside their head. And I would typically be saying things like:
IF EVERYONE WAS CUMMING WE WOULDN’T HAVE TIME FOR FIGHTING AND IF BIRTH CONTROL WERE A NON-ISSUE, SO WOULD THE POPULATION CONTROL PROBLEM.
ORGASMS & FEWER BABIES = WORLD PEACE
But then the internet served me this and quieted the yelling:
When I read this, I felt so much of my own bullshit and bias come up in my throat that I wanted to puke just to get it out.
I felt so many of my issues become insignificant because they had been given context and reason.
I understood so much more of myself and my actions and my entire relationship with women.
We watch her with an intensity beyond our awareness.
Every relationship she has, every interaction she takes part in, every coping mechanism, and her habitual patterns imprint our subconscious.
Because she is symbolic of life itself, we struggle to see her as she is: a human being with emotional blocks and wounds she’s worked hard to run from.
We’re so desperate for her to give us what she hasn’t been able to give herself.
Healing the mother wound is a long and beautiful process. It involves seeing her as a human being doing what she felt was best at her level of consciousness.
By healing ourselves, we release her of a duty and see her as an equal.
We give her the acceptance she couldn’t give herself.
I have spent a lot of time hating my mom for the things she never gave me emotionally, but I’ve never taken the time to thank her for what she spared me from.
Thank you for never identifying race or orientation in a way where I would understand that bias
Thank you for taking me to get birth control the moment I told you I needed it and never letting my body feel like a burden.
Thank you for never allowing me to feel ugly, even when I had a face full of metal.
Thank you for allowing me to embrace my sexuality. You saved me from allowing a man to define it for me.
Thank you for never questioning or encouraging me to question my selection of a microscope over makeup.
Thank you for letting me hate you. I had to at the time because it was too painful to hate myself.
But I’m ready to be happy and like most of life, that starts with mom.
I think it’s more important to recognize mothers on "women’s day”.
We give them their day for their role, but rarely the acknowledgment that they are just humans and how fucking freeing that is.