The picture of my pain

It just struck me right now... that when I lived as a guy but was still pre-op chest wise, I never managed to imagine myself with a flat chest. Like when I tried to it just became the image of a blurry, nipple-less wall of skin with no details at all. Like a badly photoshopped photo. But now that I imagine my chest with new boobs, I can not only imagine a pair in what I think would be a reasonable density/firmness of silicone/saline implants, or a size I think I'd feel very comfy and pretty with, but also what my actual nipples could look like on them and even some random scarring under them. I do improvise with what sort of scarring I think I'd end up with though, and where my current scars could likely end up.

But not only that, I can also imagine what they could feel like in my hands, being squeezed around, their weight, and also that I think it would actually amuse me that they'd stand upright when I'd lying down on my back, which natural boobs don't do. I think I'd really love just playing with them on my own. Very carefully and gently at first, then more intensely as they'd heal from the surgery. And I think it would be very good to do that first before letting someone else touch them. To just familiarise myself with them, and see if I could figure out what sort of touch I may like or dislike, etc. Almost like masturbation! Actually, I'd definitely include boob touching into my masturbation routine then.

It's just not quite sexually satisfying for me to touch my breast forms while masturbating. Cause I just want to feel it but I don't and I can't, and that leaves me with an empty, hollow feeling. Like no matter how far I stretch my arm I simply cannot reach.

Okay I just spent an hour or so googling info and images of breast reconstruction surgery after mastectomy. I saw several pictures of women who got simply implants (and some also new nipples but that doesn't apply to me) and that was helpful for me to see where their mastectomy scars ended up. Somehow it wasn't quite what I had expected and this gives me more to think about. Also remembering that the location of my scars used to align with where my nipples formerly were. I think I would end up with one of two outcomes that I can't quite figure out which one:
1.) My nipples don't need to be relocated and end up at the peak of the boobs, then my mastectomy scars will run across the boobs but a couple cm under the nipples, visible from straight ahead but not centered on the middle.
2.) They will need to be relocated to end up at the peaks, then my mastectomy scars will run right across the boobs with the nipples at the centers of them, and the scars would be horizontal across the boobs when looking at them straight ahead.

Either way though, those mastectomy scars will also continue towards the sides under my arms. I wonder how or if they can be stretched. Because looking at the pictures online it seems those women's scars could and did stretch quite a lot. Length-wise, I mean. But also a little in width. I'd be fine with that, I guess.

As for reconstructed boobs in general, the ones with just implants put in look far better (in my opinion) than the ones made of tissue from other parts of the body. Those do look kinda... ugh I don't want to be mean, but... a little patchwork-like and awkward, to put it as kindly as I can. And that is quite off-putting for me, I have to admit. Cause if that turns out to be my only option... I'm seriously gonna have to think about it. It's pretty much for the same reason some phalloplasty dicks tend to look... kinda undesireable and not entirely dick-like. That those breasts then also, in very much the same way, also look kinda undesireable (to me) and not entirely breast-like. Like they look very obviously unnatural and hand-made.

I'm young, highly sexual, want to get new breasts to increase my confidence and reduce my intense dysphoric feelings... so if the only kinds of boobs I could get would be impeeding on my confidence and make me feel like I look like a creation of Frankenstein, especially with sex partners... my self-image would undoubtedly also suffer. Like if I would end up not wanting to take off my bra even after surgery... I wouldn't have improved my confidence much at all. So if at all possible, I definitely want to avoid having to add extra skin flaps from other parts of my body. But if I simply don't have enough skin on my chest to stretch for implants... I'm gonna have to consider getting such flaps, and really think that through.

Like would that be better than staying flat? Yeah... yeah it most likely would. Cause it's the flatness itself that bothers me the most, and not being able to show clevage with clothing, and that there's simply nothing there when I feel with my hands. So even if I could only get boobs that I'd not like the aesthetics of while bare, I'm pretty sure that the feeling of them simply being there, even if I'd always hide them in bras, would still be a lot better than how it is now. Although very far from ideal.

So, after only having thought about it for like 2 minutes... yeah, I most likely would do it even if that would be my only option to get new boobs. But I'd likely also struggle to love them. I'd like them and be happy to have them, and be relieved of much of dysphoria, but that alone is not love. An absense of feeling utterly horrible about my chest is not loving my chest. That is being okay, accepting, but not exactly extatic about it. If I'll end having to go that route, I'll likely beat myself up even more for having had that mastectomy to begin with. I think it would fill me with a very strong grief that my chest would simply never look good again, and being unable to do anything about it. And always feel broken. And that's a tragedy I'd rather not have to deal with.

Another detransitioner told me that he sees his transition surgery scars as "battle scars" and I like that sentiment. I don't know which surgeries he had, I only know that he had been on estrogen for 17 years, needs to take testosterone for his detransition and that he had some sort of gender transition surgery/-ies. I didn't want to be too prying and ask such a question. I know that can be very sensitive, but of course my mind wanders to exactly what sort of surgeries it might be that he wishes he hadn't done. But anyhow, what he said makes me want to refer to my mastectomy scars as battle scars too. It almost looks like someone tried to cut my heart out, or take the air out of my lungs, but I survived that, and the wounds healed.

And I'll always be scarred, one way or another. And scars themselves are not something I consider ugly or unsightly, or even necessarily undesireable. But sometimes they carry a lot of emotions with them, if they're reminders of a painful past, or decision. Like for every time someone who sees my self harm scars on my arms comments on them and tells me I shouldn't harm myself, that is a painful reminder that no matter how many years of not cutting myself, someone is always gonna come by and talk to me as if I was still actively creating more new wounds. It's been 3 years. Every self-inficted scar on my body is at least 3 years old. I've quit for good. But strangers don't see my past when they look at me, and they judge. And they don't trust me when I say I've quit. Having my past being interpreted as my present time, over and over again, is painful and frustrating.

And just as likely, I think people will continue to ask me about "my chest surgery" even decades from now. I know I have a picture of my pre-op chest somewhere. I've been wanting to look at it again, but also I worry that doing so would fill me with emotions too heavy to bear. So I keep postponing it. But I should, shouldn't I? I should, I know that I should. I want to, but fuck it hurts.

Fuuuck... they were beautiful. Such heavy grief hit me instantly, like a block of lead in my heart, weighing me down into my chair, as I look at that picture. That one and only picture ever taken of my bare pre-op chest. It doesn't show my face, but I know I was distressed when I took the photo. It was just a few days before the surgery. It's a little blurry but clear enough to see. They're small but not tiny, and not really saggy, still kinda round. And that's after 5 years of binding. I can't remember what they felt like. My mind has forgotten. But I want to leap into that picture and feel them again. At least for just one last, very loving goodbye. But I'll never feel them again. Oh fuck I really miss them now. Fuck, size doesn't matter now that I see what they actually looked like. I want them back. I want them back so bad...

Latent tears... Even in this moment I cannot cry, but my nose is running extra much as though I'm crying, and I can feel the pressure from within. Please, let me cry... I'm begging please... it's been 3 fucking months of needing to release tears but they just won't reach out. It has built up a pressure that is now literally causing me a headache and nausea. Or that's me being starved cause I haven't eaten today, I don't know, but this pressure of internal tears made it worse. I might need to puke soon, cause I'm not feeling too good.

If there was just one thing I could go back in time to undo, it would be that surgery. It's rare, very very rare, that I regret something so completely that I wish it entirely undone. I think this might even be the only such thing ever in my entire life. I just took a painkiller some 30 minutes ago but it's getting increasingly worse and my head literally feels several kg heavier. But this grief is nearly tearing me apart, it feels like something's shattering inside me. Like glass being crushed against my ribs. But I can't get my natural breasts back. The only thing I can do is to mourn them and the loss of them. And try my hardest to get reconstruction financially covered. And if not, beg my parents to pay for it with their retirement savings. I'll get it somehow, cause I can't continue like this forever.

Granted, it's only been 3 months and surgery is far away either way. I can't know what I'll feel in 1 or 2 years from now. Maybe most of my grieving process will be over by then, or maybe I'll cry all the way to the operation table. I suddenly feel a slight loss of control of my entire body. I can't feel it as much. My hands are slowly going numb. Am I passing out, or dissociating, or getting sick? Not that I care or even worry in the slightest, it's just a bit weird and makes writing difficult. Perhaps I'm just tired and exhausted. Or I'm coming down with a fever, or it's just my headache. Sometimes when it gets really bad, it causes nausea and loss of sensation in the rest of my body. I don't know why. I think it affects my blood flow somehow, or it's my blood flow that slows down which then in turn worsens my headache and causes nausea cause not enough blood in my brain. I've no fucking idea.

But it seems kinda likely that my blood flow has slowed down quite a lot right now, but it's happening very slowly so I don't crash quickly and I'm still conscious. Perhaps not for much longer. If my vision starts to blacken, I'm gonna lie down in my bed, cause no use trying to write at that point anyhow. I wonder if I can go out for a cigarette without crashing or if I'd just fall over halfway to my balcony. I kinda need a smoke but not sure if I can manage it physically.

It doesn't seem to be getting worse. Perhaps it is just psychological, or psychosomatic. It's hard to tell, but I seem to be getting better now, actually. My hands feel almost normal again and my head feels slightly lighter. Maybe the painkiller is working after all. Sometimes those fuckers just take half an eternity to do their damn thing. I should go to bed soon anyway. I'll post this as edited as I can manage. Mainly just tying up some loose ends. Maybe drinking som fluid replacement stuff can help a bit. Some electrolytes might be just what I'm lacking. I think I should be able to stand up and walk around by now. Just carefully. Yep, working, but my balance is fucked. Okay I got my cigarette and I didn't crash anywhere.

Yeah, I miss my boobs. More than I can even fathom it myself. Not having them anymore makes me feel like I have two holes in my chest. Like a porcelain doll that got stabbed twice. And the gaping abyss from inside the hollow doll that is staring back at me is dark, cold and heavier than a mountain. It is pain, concentrated and thick. And it's seeping out through the two holes, as though the doll is filled with fluid, and it seeps out like the tears I can't cry. And that is my mental image of exactly in what way I feel broken. Like that porcelain doll. That's the centre of my pain, just centimetres from my heart. Like someone smashed my ribs in where my boobs used to be, and I'm mentally bleeding from the impact that repeats over and over every day. And like I'm not just flat, but carved open and hollowed out. I made a terrible, utterly devastating, mistake. And I cannot call it anything other than a mistake. I betrayed myself, very very deeply. I do not know how, or even if, I can heal that mental wound.