Quinn Procter
Spots of mould scatter across yellow walls and nestle comfortably in the moist environment, but I can’t take my eyes off the mirror. I’m the last one in the changing room as the rest of my class gather by the pool. I can’t wait much longer, because having a teacher drag me out would only cause a scene. I tug black Lycra, but it won’t budge as white polka dots are stuck firmly in place. I accept my fate and go. Moving fast across cold wet concrete to join my peers on the steps that look out over the chlorine-heavy soup. A wave of swerving heads that mimics rippling water, turn my way, before returning to their chatter. Speedos cling to streamlined figures with necklines choking their wearers, that secure every bit of flesh so no one worries about a potential slip. Except I am painfully aware that I am the only girl in year 6 whose togs need cups.
I’m eleven years old when Mum takes me to Myer for my first bra. Not daring to look up, I’m pushed into a rundown changing room with mirrors littered with black spots that attempt to disguise walls of flaking paint. An old woman hands me a few bras to try on before leaving to find more. Mum makes a point of squeezing her eyes shut and placing her hand over them and spinning to face the wall each time I change, but it’s still awkward. When the old lady returns, she gestures to the cups, band and straps. I feel clammy sweat on my hands. I try and look anywhere but in the mirror. The lady declares the boring beige ‘a good fit’ and my size ‘10B’. We walk to the counter as Mum chats to her. They take their time while I’m trapped, surrounded by middle-aged women unfazed by the racks of lingerie. Mum pays and I move straight for the exit, content to never return. I’m back within six months being told I’m a 12DD.
By the time I start year 7 I’ve grown to a 12E. I can tell that I’m different. Surrounded by tiny girls with flat chests. I can’t stop the anxiety from overtaking me. For a while my oversized tartan dress helps hide my chest, but then the swimming carnival arrives. In another mouldy changing room, I’m forced to wear the school’s shitty Speedos. Everyone complains about their fit. Protesting the imaginary athlete they were made for who doesn’t exist in a school. I keep my mouth shut and wrap a towel around my body to hide the unavoidable four-inch line of cleavage the Speedos squeeze from my unusual proportions. I’m a size 12F by my thirteenth birthday and Mum mentions the possibility of a reduction in the future.
A lap and a half of the oval is all I need to run. The gun fires and everyone takes off, but I can’t match their pace. My boobs rise into the air and fall back, slamming their weight into my body with every step I take. I cannot ignore their mass lifting out of my sweat-stained bra. Jostling against the rough fabric, I try adjusting them, but by the next step they’re out again. I desperately push my arms into my body, but it only aids their escape. I’m out of breath, and a lap to go as I watch the other girls finish while I fall further behind and am reduced to walking. A peppy senior shows up beside me and tells me to run to the finish line. My mind fills with nasty comebacks, while tears burn behind my eyes. I try to release the words, but they’re caught in my throat. I’m left with one escape route. With each stride my boobs attempt to break free once again. I abandon subtlety and wrap my arms around myself, trying to force them back against my ribs as I make a final run for the finish line. I don’t forget my sports bra again.
I’m fourteen when I’m dragged back to Myer for another bra fitting. The lady scans the racks, but nothing fits. She recommends another place, after two hours in the car we pull up to a large warehouse. I rub my hands together, picking at the skin around my nails as I follow Mum to the front doors only for anxiety to dissipate when I enter. Bright pastel paint covers every wall, and lights shine on the wide collection of bras. It is larger than any I’d seen before. The store is filled with young women and variety Myer lacked. The woman that serves us looks like she would shop there. She guides us through every bra available, asking about the styles and colours I like. I’m not used to having options. The changing rooms are spacious, with fresh pastel-coloured walls and clean mirrors. Mum sat on the sofa outside, poking her head in to look at each bra I try. We find my new size, 10H. My smile is uncontainable as we make our purchases. I am finally comfortable shopping in a store where not only the bras fit, but I do. My comfort is short-lived. The server tells us that if I get any bigger, I will need something custom made or specifically imported for me. My body is an outlier, even in the place I’m meant to belong.
Mum never wanted me to feel bad about my body, but she couldn’t hide the look of pity whenever I needed a new bra. She’d say that it was wrong that I had to deal with a chest like mine, especially at such a young age. Clothes are a pain. Mum takes me straight to the women’s section, ignoring the trendy clothes we know would never fit. She heads straight for the sales assistant while I follow behind, hoping her shadow would envelop me and hide my existence from the world. Mum asks if they have something age appropriate while gesturing to my boobs. The assistant’s eyes widen, lingering on my chest and lips form a determined line before giving a quick nod as they rush to start their search. I wrap my arms around my stomach and curl in on myself, hoping my chest would dissipate, leaving behind a normal body.
Mum mentioned breast reductions a few times, as something I would probably get when I was older. I knew I wanted one though. I wanted to find clothes that fit. To walk into a store and leave with something that would cover my chest without drowning the rest of me in fabric. Spending fruitless days searching stores for something that I felt comfortable in and didn’t treat my busts as inherently sexy. I needed other girls to stop staring at me through angled mirrors every time I changed for PE. I wanted to exist without despising my naturally unnatural chest. The appointment was only meant to look at my options in the future and be ready for when I could legally get the surgery at eighteen, but the surgeon immediately pressed go. That was, if a fellow surgeon also said yes, and he did. Despite being fifteen, my chronic back pain made the operation medical instead of cosmetic.
The surgeon tells me to remove my top and bra so he can examine my breasts. I face the wall as if it preserves my modesty. My arms twitch as I’m desperate to cover myself with them, instead I grip the sides of my pants and hope my anxiety isn’t as noticeable as I think it is. He puts on a pair of thin glasses and begins squinting at my boobs, lifting them up and holding the weight in his hand while poking different areas. Turning away to his desk I think it’s over, only for him to grab a Sharpie and start drawing the lines where each cut would be made. I can feel the felt-tip moving across my skin, my body is a whiteboard of flesh. I refuse to look down and acknowledge how exposed I am. I’m moved to a different room to take pre-op photos. As I stand topless before a nurse and she takes photos from every angle, I contemplate all the school lectures I’ve heard about sending nudes or child pornography laws. I wonder if the photos counts or if their medical necessity cancels it out. Either way with each round of photos and measurements marked my anxiety eases and I focus on the surgery ahead.
The bright lights above me are so blinding I turn my head and watch the doctors and nurses shuffle around. Some give smiles and other comment on how brave I am. I can only focus on how many adults are about to see my boobs on display, touching and cutting them while my body lays dead to the world. People I will never see again whose only role in my life is to take a part of me away. My hands clench my surgical gown, rubbing my fingers over the synthetic material as I wait to be put under. I try and fight the anaesthetic to see how long it would take for me to pass out. I don’t last long. I open my eyes and I’m somewhere else. Bandages press into my chest and my sore body struggles to move, but as I sit up, I can only think about how light I feel.
Mum talks about how people saw me. Men jabbing each other while pointing at a twelve-year-old walking past and mothers commenting on how inappropriate my clothes were with a bust that size. I was a child stuck in a woman’s body and ignorant of their distorted perception of me. I could never hide it or go a moment without being aware of how hard it made my life. My brain couldn’t comprehend what I would look like once my boobs were finally gone. But as I remove the bandages and examine the anchor-shaped scars, red and yellow marks covering my chest and the patches of dried up blood, all I feel is joy. I finally look right.