"like you blame the weatherman for the rain"

Mean dermatologist, and I'm beating myself up over my failure to communicate my desires. She cheerfully told me things were not going to be covered by insurance, and that the things I don't like are just going to get aesthetically worse, but since they are not harmful, it's fine. I tried to explain that I wanted to know solutions even if they weren't covered by insurance, and she repeated that it wouldn't be covered and then I just sort of gave up.

This is hard on the heels of discovering that at the gym, I weight X+1 (X being my current target) but two days later, at the doctors, I weight X+5. I know that different scales read differently, and that I should go on how I feel, not the numbers I see, but my heart still sank.

Last May, I bought a groupon clone thing on a whim. It was a set of boudoir photos. More precisely, it was a session with a photographer, who would then provide me with a couple retouched prints, etc. This was before I had actually decided to get the mastectomy.

Times passes. Our heroine slowly begins to regain her equilibrium, resigns herself to a while wearing granny bras (until my side stops hurting, underwires are not an option, and my side shows no signs of stopping hurting), starts trying to take the weight she gained while she took to the couch, uses the gym as a method of coping with a change in her life that she doesn't really like. Then I get an email, telling me this is about to expire, and I end up talking to a lovely woman about booking my session, while inside my head I'm screaming at myself about what a bad idea this is.

I don't like to look at myself on the best days. During the crazy years, there was a while where I would cover all the mirrors, and rely on my reflection in computer screens and windows to tell me what I looked like. (this was directly in between my two goth phases, 'cause while I could once put on black eyeliner drunk in a moving car with no mirror, I still needed to survey the results).

Light thinks I'm beautiful, I've had people tell me that they don't see me the way I see me. But I'm still almost always disappointed when I see myself in the mirror, and I try to minimize that as much as possible. I'm a professional now, with a job where people expect me to look professional-ish, I can't indulge in the luxury of not looking in mirrors.

I want to age gracefully. I love my grey hair, each passing decade is better than the one before, and I keep getting to wake up to Light, which reconciles me to the passing of time. Hell, I can trace probably half of my crush on Bespoke to the way his eyes crinkle when he grins. I try as hard as I can to become more me with each passing day, I'm trying to learn how to write the important things on my body with ink instead of any of the other mediums I've used.

Goddamn dismissive doctor. I've had my fucking boobs lopped off in the past twelve months. Could you possibly be a little kinder about the age-spots I'm concerned about? I was pretty sure they weren't anything to worry about, but I also don't particularly like the idea my nose will become increasingly mottled as I age because my parents were fuckers who didn't believe in sunscreen. (much like menstrual cramps, my father took a very walk-it-off approach to sunburn. I did get to stay inside on the few occasions that I blistered).

In my head, I see a flip-chart sort of sign, the kind that say "X days since our last accident" in my head. Mine reads "X days since last bus-crying episode." And now I'm back to zero.

WHINE.

"like you blame the weatherman for the rain"

Mean dermatologist, and I'm beating myself up over my failure to communicate my desires. She cheerfully told me things were not going to be covered by insurance, and that the things I don't like are just going to get aesthetically worse, but since they are not harmful, it's fine. I tried to explain that I wanted to know solutions even if they weren't covered by insurance, and she repeated that it wouldn't be covered and then I just sort of gave up.

This is hard on the heels of discovering that at the gym, I weight X+1 (X being my current target) but two days later, at the doctors, I weight X+5. I know that different scales read differently, and that I should go on how I feel, not the numbers I see, but my heart still sank.

Last May, I bought a groupon clone thing on a whim. It was a set of boudoir photos. More precisely, it was a session with a photographer, who would then provide me with a couple retouched prints, etc. This was before I had actually decided to get the mastectomy.

Times passes. Our heroine slowly begins to regain her equilibrium, resigns herself to a while wearing granny bras (until my side stops hurting, underwires are not an option, and my side shows no signs of stopping hurting), starts trying to take the weight she gained while she took to the couch, uses the gym as a method of coping with a change in her life that she doesn't really like. Then I get an email, telling me this is about to expire, and I end up talking to a lovely woman about booking my session, while inside my head I'm screaming at myself about what a bad idea this is.

I don't like to look at myself on the best days. During the crazy years, there was a while where I would cover all the mirrors, and rely on my reflection in computer screens and windows to tell me what I looked like. (this was directly in between my two goth phases, 'cause while I could once put on black eyeliner drunk in a moving car with no mirror, I still needed to survey the results).

Light thinks I'm beautiful, I've had people tell me that they don't see me the way I see me. But I'm still almost always disappointed when I see myself in the mirror, and I try to minimize that as much as possible. I'm a professional now, with a job where people expect me to look professional-ish, I can't indulge in the luxury of not looking in mirrors.

I want to age gracefully. I love my grey hair, each passing decade is better than the one before, and I keep getting to wake up to Light, which reconciles me to the passing of time. Hell, I can trace probably half of my crush on Bespoke to the way his eyes crinkle when he grins. I try as hard as I can to become more me with each passing day, I'm trying to learn how to write the important things on my body with ink instead of any of the other mediums I've used.

Goddamn dismissive doctor. I've had my fucking boobs lopped off in the past twelve months. Could you possibly be a little kinder about the age-spots I'm concerned about? I was pretty sure they weren't anything to worry about, but I also don't particularly like the idea my nose will become increasingly mottled as I age because my parents were fuckers who didn't believe in sunscreen. (much like menstrual cramps, my father took a very walk-it-off approach to sunburn. I did get to stay inside on the few occasions that I blistered).

In my head, I see a flip-chart sort of sign, the kind that say "X days since our last accident" in my head. Mine reads "X days since last bus-crying episode." And now I'm back to zero.

WHINE.