The youth-written stories in Represent give inspiration and information to teens in foster care while offering staff insight into those teens’ struggles.

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Big Breasts Are No Blessing

For years, I’ve had to deal with having big breasts. Many people tell me I’m lucky, that being busty is supposed to be a blessing. But I’ve found it difficult to be left alone because of this alleged gift.

Before I got these boobs, I enjoyed the easiness of being a child. Growing up, I wasn’t into playing house or dress-up, or trying on make-up like other girls.

I wanted to be as much like my two older brothers as I could. Their interests became my interests because I didn’t think they would like me if I were too girly.

So when they watched wrestling or other sporting events, I did too. When they played video games, so did I. I wanted them to think that I was a cool little sister. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I convinced myself that I was going to be a boy just like them.

That’s why I was terribly disappointed when I started to develop. My new knockers kicked me out of my childhood and hurtled me into the beginning stages of womanhood. I started to develop when I was 11, although I denied that my body was changing until I was almost 13.

I refused to wear a training bra, insisting I didn’t need one. My mother tried to talk me into getting one whenever we went shopping, but I always said “No!” or “What for?”

Getting a bra would’ve been an admission to myself that I was on my way to becoming a woman and being perceived in a sexual manner. By the time I reached the point where I agreed that I needed a bra, I was clear into a B cup. My first bra came from Victoria’s Secret. I skipped training and went straight to work. (With my new development, I could now be employed by one of the best strip clubs in the city.)

I felt freakishly odd because people started to make comments about my chest. I wasn’t comfortable with strangers looking at me sexually. It was awkward to think about the vulgar thoughts I knew some guys were starting to have.

Once, I was just hanging around a bunch of male friends when one of them blurted out, “Got Milk?” At first I laughed, because I can laugh at myself every once in a while. But that joke lost its humor well before the millionth time.

I felt like an object, not a person, and, even worse, I felt like a slut. Guys that I had known for most of my life were making me feel cheap and dirty.

And it hurt even more when my relatives made thoughtless comments. At a family gathering, my aunt said I could knock somebody out with my hooters. I cried for hours after that.

I thought it was mean to pick on a young girl in front of family members, but my aunt thought it was just good-natured teasing and I was too sensitive. She’s a model, and her life revolves around her body. She thought it was great that my breasts were so large, since I could show off my body and get tons of attention, like she did.

But her idea that everyone enjoys being ogled was incorrect. I wanted to be a wallflower and left alone. I didn’t want anybody staring at me.

Others in my family teased me about my breasts as well. I detested the constant ridicule, and I didn’t enjoy being the subject of jokes at family reunions. It was extremely embarrassing.

After a couple of years, I learned to push the comments to the back of my mind. I got sick of crying about every remark. No one seemed to care and the tears weren’t doing a thing for me.

image by Yvonne Chen

Instead, I tried to make myself feel better in other ways. Until I turned 15, I wore big, oversized clothing to hide my boobs. My wardrobe consisted of floppy sweatshirts and T-shirts since I didn’t bother to look in the female section when I went shopping.

No one seemed to care that I only wore men’s clothes, that I looked like a fat guy. I was temporarily happy, because despite looking like I’d stolen one of my big brother’s outfits, my boobs didn’t look so big. I didn’t have to deal with the perverts who usually gazed in wonder.

But three years ago, when I was 15, I had a revelation. One night, when I was at my best friend’s house, she asked me why I always covered up. She thought I was ashamed of my body. I told her I wasn’t, and I just happened to like baggy clothes.

Honestly, I was ashamed, but in denial. I didn’t realize that until she pointed it out to me. I covered up because I was embarrassed about the size of my breasts.

A couple of hours after leaving her house, I realized I was sick of always looking like a boy. I thought to myself, “I’m not a guy, and God made me this way, so why should I be ashamed?”

I’m a girl and there’s nothing wrong with me looking like one, at least every once in a while. So now I attempt to look more girly at least once a week, even though that can be quite the chore.

But I was still sensitive about my bustiness. That’s why I attempted to maintain some distance from boys. I went to an all-girls high school freshmen year because I didn’t want to deal with guys. After that I was home-schooled. I also didn’t date. I couldn’t tell if a guy was really interested in me or my DDs, so I didn’t bother trying to figure it out.

Thankfully, by the time I was 16, my male and female friends were more sensitive to my feelings. It became common knowledge that my breasts weren’t to be discussed. They remembered the crying spells and rages I’d had over people talking about them in the past.

But, to this day, I must deal with comments that I wish people would have enough sense not to say. At every family function (which I can’t seem to avoid), there’s still at least one remark on the size of my breasts. I even caught a guidance counselor talking about them in Spanish as if I wasn’t in the room.

Why don’t people understand that casually talking about my chest isn’t OK? And shouldn’t folks know that it’s not appropriate to ask, “What size are those things anyway?” or, “Don’t those things hurt?”

I don’t see how that’s anyone’s business but mine, but I still answer the idiotic questions. It’s easier for me to tell people what they want to know, since they usually leave me alone once they’ve gotten the information.

I’m puzzled when someone says, “I wish I were your size.” Why would anyone want something the size of honeydews hanging from her body? Why would anyone want the first thing people associated with them to be their breasts?

Some people have suggested I get a breast reduction, but I don’t like the idea of unnecessary surgery, so that’s out of the question for now. If I develop unbearable back pain in the future, though, then I’d consider the operation.

And even though I complain, after having my breasts for the last seven years, I’ve gotten used to them. I’m not happy about them, but they’re here. The extreme embarrassment that I once felt has died down to annoyance.

The shame isn’t totally gone. It pops up on occasion. But I know my bust-line isn’t going anywhere, even though I wish the comments would.

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