Body parts...

One of the things that I have never understood is why men like to engage with little girls.

Something that you might not think about is how much that abuse suffered by the little girl can lead to her hating the parts of her body that were abused.  For me, a battle I have faced my entire life is with my breasts.  I mean, that area is not the only area of my body I loathe, but they have plagued me.

When I was little, I just couldn't understand why men liked them.  What they did to them confused me and made me feel filthy.  As I grew, my feelings intensified.  And it gutted me each time I endured abuse with them.

I finally have been losing weight.  It has been rather slow the first 11 months of torturing myself on the treadmill, but a medication I started in July has helped to kind of counteract the other medications causing weight gain or the metabolism issues or whatever has kept me so very rotund.

Last month, I started trying intermittent fasting.  Well, actually, I've tried it off and on for a while, having read some good research about intermittent fasting with diabetics, who struggle with weight loss.  For many reasons, I fit that group more than any other, even though I am not a diabetic.

There are two basic approaches:  1) fast certain days of the week and 2) fast certain hours in a day.  I tried the latter and didn't fair well.  I tried the former and didn't feel it was fitting me.  The problem with the fasting the past month, however, has been my increasing consumption of dessert.

Even before I started my no desert campaign, I decided to try the latter fasting once more.  I shifted around some of my medications and have been eating just 6 hours a day.  In four days without dessert, I have lost four pounds.  That is too fast, I believe, so I want to adjust what I am eating in the six hours (eat more), but I finally believe that I might get back to who I was anatomically before I started nerve pain medication.

Why start off this entry the way that I did if I am going to talk about weight?  Well, my body is changing.  Of late, I have noticed the biggest difference.  And that difference has been a trigger for me.  SIGH.

My abdomen was really large.  It still is, but very much less so.  I have lost 14 inches.  And, of late, my breasts have become more defined.  Beneath them, my abdomen is flat, instead of sticking out further than they do.

I haven't been able to understand why this change has been such trigger for me, buy my therapist explained it today.  For two years, I haven't had a shape that did anything to accentuate my body.  The curves I had made me look more like Santa or an elephant.

It took nearly the entire appointment today to get to the struggle.  I struggle to deal with my breasts and I struggle to talk about them.  Even the word breast is a trigger for me.  I hate  mine.  I hate  the memories attached to them.  I don't want them.

But my body now looks ... womanly ... again and I am not handling it well.

Understanding ... or rather having the thought that I haven't had to face that shape for a couple of years helps.  That make such perfect sense to me.  I have not had to think about my shape for a long while.  And during that time, I have been stirring my pot, so to speak, with therapy.  It is no wonder that I am struggling!

I cannot really explain how relieved I was to hear that explanation, to realize that, despite  my state, what I am thinking about this is normal.  Understandable.

I wish I could change my thoughts.  Some will, I hope, with therapy.  However, I do not believe that all of them will.  I do not enjoy the physicality of my body.  Pleasure is not pleasure to me.  It never has been.  And I want no part of it.

Nor do I want any part of my breasts.

When I was younger, my grandmother had a radical mastectomy.  I did not want her pain, but I envied her her body.  I was not scared at seeing her chest wall, at seeing the change from having a breast to not even having a layer of muscle.

I never spoke of my envy.  I did not believe anyone could ever understand, but my therapist did.  I mean, I just broached the subject.  I couldn't really talk about it.  But she got what I was trying to say. And I want to talk about it.

I do.

For I am frightened of the panic I feel whenever I catch a glance at my chest.  I see the defined curve that speaks of womanly parts and nausea rises to fill my being.  I am overcome with fear and desperation and the desire to escape.  But I cannot really escape my body.  I can.  And I oft think of that.  Only I am trying to shun such thoughts, to want to live.

Seeing those curves makes me want to die.

I do not want to relive the flashbacks I have of the abuse of my breasts.  I do not want to think about.  I do not want the reminder.  I could almost wish to gain back the 24 pounds that I have lost.  Almost.

It has been difficult and I desire prayer.  When such terrible fear and panic arises when I catch sight of my curves, I long to hear the Word, because I know it will comfort and calm me.  Only how do I admit to my friends or to my new pastor this problem that I am battling?

I am trapped in this body.
And I am alone with its horror to me.