Ah, be still my beating breast… My beautiful beating betraying breast.
Which has a lump in. A small lump, but it’s size is entirely disproportionate to the amount of anxiety it has awakened within me. I keep telling myself, this shock could ultimately be a good thing, that it might be the kick up the backside I need to figure out what I want to do in life & to go for it – make the most of it, more often. But mostly, my mind is filled with fear, and betrayal, by my own body.
On Christmas Eve, I’ll be at the hospital while I have my boobie poked & prodded by clinical strangers, something necessary that I absolutely hate. I feel alienated by my own body & I know it’s about to be violated, even if it is for my own good. For some reason, I can’t shake this sense of self-violation – especially after having my home burgled a couple of weeks ago. First, my home violated, now my body will be too. Not sure what to do to shake this feeling, I want my autonomy back.
I feel strangely proprietorial over my own flesh, too. If they take some of the lump out, what will they do with it? I want it back. Strange to think that there’s a living part of me that will be extracted. A small part of me will be dead. A small part of what it’s suppose to be to be a woman. Will I be diminished in some way. Will I miss it? I already feel haunted by this phantom bit of my now-still-living breast.
Mascara Streaks 