“After my husband asked for a divorce, something inside of me shifted.”
My once-perky breasts werent the same after.
They werentterrible, just more deflated, like a helium balloon the day after a birthday party.
I used to joke with my husband that I was planning to have breast surgery when I finished nursing.
I was anau naturelgranola girl who hadnt even had caffeine until her mid-30s.
I never smoked a cigarette or tried an illegal substance either.
Only when I have a migraine do I hesitantly swallow an Advil.
But after my husband asked for a divorce, something inside of me shifted.
If I was going back on the market, I needed my before-childbirth body back.
Before kids, my breasts were always my standout feature.
After pregnancy, birth and breastfeeding, my breasts got even more humongous.
I could barely contain them in a swimsuit when I brought my sons to the pool.
I looked like Dolly Parton without the blond hair and form-fitting clothing.
Instead, I hid behind XXL T-shirts, not wanting an ounce of attention.
(He was the primary breadwinner.)
My feet had even grown half a size.
None of it seemed fair.
I received part of my exs retirement account and decided to use a portion toward the surgery.
I scheduled an appointment with my moms plastic surgeon.
Her breasts were much heavier than mine and killed her back.
Bra straps dug into her shoulders.
Unlike my mom, I wanted surgery less because of back pain and more because of vanity.
Id been married for almost my entire 20s and 30s and was terrified of dating again.
Who would want a 40-year-old with two teenagers and a not-perfect body?
I was convinced that to find love again, I couldnt look like a mother.
Id have to revert to my 20-year-old appearance.
I confidently told the plastic surgeon what I wanted on my first visit.
I want a slight lift and a reduction, I said.
The surgeon grabbed my boobs with his cold hands and lifted them toward my collarbone.
He then said, You need implants.
Your breasts dont have enough volume.
I visited the surgeon a second and third time, and his recommendation didnt change.
I held off on the surgery, confused.
My breasts were already huge.
How on earth could I need implants?
My hippie, alternative-medicine self couldnt imagine inserting a foreign object into my body.
During one appointment, the surgeon led me to a room with his nurse.
She displayed more than half a dozen saline implants on a table, ranging from small to large.
It looked like we were preparing to participate in a raucous water balloon fight.
Here, the nurse said, handing me a large size.
Put this under your bra and look in the mirror.
I slid the plastic under my Walmart sports bra and stood in front of the mirror, looking miserable.
The nurse said, You definitely dont need this size.
Its too big for you, but I wanted you to get a sense of the different sizes.
When she advanced to one of the smallest sizes, I finally felt a tad more comfortable.
That looks good, she said.
I think youre a 200cc girl.
My boys stayed with their dad on the weekend I went in for surgery.
I didnt tell them or anyone except my mother and best friend, who would be my caretakers.
When the nurses woke me up from anesthesia, I couldnt pry my eyes open.
you better wake upnow, Tamara, I heard the nurses say, pounding my shoulder.
I wanted to sleep forever.
They held my weight and walked me out of the clinic and into my moms SUV.
I got into her car and closed my eyes.
The next thing I knew, I was in her guest bedroom, propped up with pillows.
After my divorce, my self-esteem had plummeted.
I truly thought having a great body would cure the hole in my heart.
Boy was I wrong!
My breasts looked better without a shirt on after the surgery.
But from outside my clothes, I looked virtually the same.
My implants were barely visible to the human eye (and hand).
The doctor had to cut out my nipples and sew them back in a new place.
He warned me I could lose sensation.
I spent weeks pinching them, getting more worried by the day.
The surgeon eyed them and said, Looks like I dragged your nipples into the incision sites.
He offered to do a fully comped surgery to slice out the excess nipple tissue.
I smiled and said nothing.
There was no way I was going back for another elective surgery.
Although he complimented me on my breasts, neither of us brought up my surgery, not even once.
Perhaps I had disassociated from my implants, hoping if I didnt say anything, theyd magically disappear.
There was me, Tamara.
And then, somewhere far, far away, my implants.
Im not sure if he noticed, but I cant imagine he wouldnt have.
But now it was coming from a place of shame and regret, not modesty.
Or as shallow for wanting my pre-baby boobies back.
Whatever the reason, Ive never discussed my breast surgery with my subsequent boyfriends.
Either they didnt notice or they didnt bring it up.
I even dated a surgeon who I thought for sure would ask about my surgery.
He was a freakin surgeon!
But nope, nothing.
Having nice breasts is nice, but the anxiety theyve caused me is not worth it.
I examine my breasts to ensure they havent burst.
I sleep particularly, too, making sure not to put too much pressure on them.
I no longer want to babysit my breasts.
I dont even like getting dental X-rays, but now Im set up for a lifetime of double radiation.
Youll have the best breasts in the nursing home.
My breasts have sagged already.
But I just turned 50, and I no longer care who knows about my augmentation.
Really, so what???
Im now worried the stress of harboring my secret will hurt me more than the actual implants.
Im exhausted from living with regret, shame and stigma.
Maybe someday Ill decide to have the implants removed, but that will be my decision to make.
Being a feminist means allowing others the right to choose whats best for their own bodies.
What I care most about now are healthy breasts.
I dont smoke or drink, and I try my best to live a joyful and stress-free life.
I wont be sunbathing topless or hopping on the nude cruise set to sail from Miami in 2025.
My new pledge is to radically accept myself, implants and all.
Her Ph.D. is in applied linguistics, and she researches how language manipulates vulnerable populations.
Shes seeking representation for her debut memoir, Child Bride: Escaping an American Sufi Cult.
She can be found atwww.tamaramc.com.
This article originally appeared onHuffPost.
