Feminist Case for Breast Reduction

When I told her the story for the first time, I stood in a warm bath as the room stood around me. My voice echoed against the wall. It was like a kind of christening, my words naming something not at all before I said it and that name finally made me.

It is a strange thing Hear, look at my breasts for the last time. There will be some of the same tissue, yes, and the new nipple cut from the old, but the breast I have used for many years thinking differently, their weight, will be gone forever. In surgical theater, the body is pure only for its inhabitants. It made me, the strange feeling of chastity, as my doctor squeezed and measured and pulled out my breasts with the mark for the morning of my surgery.

When I had my ears sewn at the age of 32, I did not hear anything – not physically or emotionally – until I stood back and looked at the metal plate of my equipment. the operating table, a small gray area between my ears. still laid, like two gums. “Oops,” the surgeon said. “I do not need you to see that.” He puts them in the green form of a row of bowls, which he then crumpled and threw into steel waste. It pulled something into me, maybe my body’s desire to make itself worse. I wish I had asked them to keep it. On the morning of my breast augmentation surgery, I was overjoyed that I would never have seen my trash thrown in the trash.

I am also proud of the diabetic caregivers, as well as their beautiful faces and voices. I used to be in most-female places, but these were mostly full of feminists, queers and trans and nonbinary people. The surgeon’s office is unabashedly feminine and steeped in the cozy assumption that everyone who enters is on the same page about beauty – how to define it and be sure that they need. Every time I step down from the elevator, I feel like an interloper. If they had glimpsed my legs hair, I would have been guilty, presented as a feminist Judas in deep cover.

I find his place like comfort. The consensus refuses to limit airway stress, and I find that I have no intention of attacking the doctor when he says things like, “They will have more and more younger, “or when a nurse clicks. My wife shrugged and promised him, “You will love them!”

That is all that the culture of the office of cosmetic-surgery, and perhaps the whole industry, follows the second-wave feminists’ culture: vision. quality is not based on patriarchal aesthetic standards, but on cultural norms. I understand the temptation to extend this measure to patients who have chosen to participate in the industry. But at the time of writing, I have addressed a number of self-proclaimed feminists who have no regrets or regrets about their surgery – from chin to belly tucks to vaginoplasty. Above all, the whole feeling is one of victory and satisfaction. It seems clear to me now that any feminist venture of cosmetic surgery that does not take women’s relationships with their own bodies into account never approves of them.

I would hate my body for many years, felt both invisible and unpopular by him, and made him do many things that others would not say to my liking. These heavy loads took an incredible amount of time and energy. Mostly, they defined my relationship for myself. Every year of healing and recovery and writing and reading and talking with friends has changed that. I no longer hate my body. My previous experience in the world does not seem to mean anything by my corporeal form. To transform the body my body feels like an important way to focus function. It is not, according to some theories, a change of mentality but a physical use of an existing one: a celebration commemorating my return from my body, once and for all. I do not want it to be a subtle process.

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