I have felt bad about how my breasts look. Not because I think they’re too big or too small. They aren’t saggy. They aren’t lopsided. Still, the current standards of beauty scream that my breasts are not right. To fully explain this, I need to go all the way back to elementary school.
While I mostly feel indifferent about my Vitiligo , I have struggled emotionally with the discoloration of my areolas. The skin on my areolas has some variation. Some of the skin is a light pinkish brown you would expect, but some of the skin is a lighter color. Still, I went in search of a solution for my “problem.” Other things contributed to feeling this way. My brief bout with Bell's Palsy, even though I had recovered, had left me feeling as if my looks and health were deteriorating. Even though my face and expressions looked the same as they always had after recovering, I worried it would come back. In my mind, this made my breasts even more of a hindrance.
The esthetician did the tattooing and told me I could come in for a free “touch-up” a few months later. I never went back. The constant pain that followed the procedure for a week and the sporadic pain I experienced for months after shocked me out of my self-critical haze. I hadn’t met the right guy yet and I was taking it out on myself. Society’s pressure to look perfect as a woman had gotten to me.
It’s hard for me to write about this. My parents advised me after I was diagnosed not to talk about having an autoimmune disorder. I know they were coming from a good place. They have always wanted to protect me. But not talking about it is not the answer. I’m a writer. I’m a feminist. It’s my responsibility to share this story. I signed myself up for physical pain, worrying about my physical appearance, when I should have been focused on my health.