Boob Eulogy one
How these two bags of shitty chemicals and the version of me that held them came to die was my own doing,
On this occasion, I prefer deaths performance be that of a dramady genre, just the right amount of adventurous audaciousness and chemical laughter to optimize the emotion and harness the love available in the pranic wind.
Both my favorite genre of film and funeral, just as long as the grit of unpopular truth and bad words accompany the duration of it.
I think the profundedness of eulogizing a once living human is a ritual and ceremony we would be wise to enliven. The eradication of meaning we give to death has not held a great return-on-investment for our species.
Eulogizing is story medicine, a priceless multidimensional alchemical opportunity, that we has humans have access to. We’ve collectively underestimated and anesthetized ourselves by the way, fear of our own capabilities within the sacred in-between space that is transition.
I know the potential by means of the pain, how easily we trigger into the meaning of separation when death greets us, in any of its forms.
An audacious desire to eulogize myself and speak to the energy as I experience it shifting, is triggering for some, that is the gift of the edge, to really discover who we are to one another. Mirrors of the same existence.
I want my human experience to be for my own species, what Didion, Lamontagne, Frida, or literally any other human producing art from the depth of pain unashamed and free has been for me. Who could do that any more authentically than I?
And so here I am … eulogizing the aspect of two bags of shitty chemicals, housed for a lifetime in my feminine body.
I shall not refrain from making hindsight commentary on what is left post excavation, which is something far more beautiful than I could have ever dreamt it to be.A living articulation of my own preferred style of torturous art production, Kintsugi, the Japanese art of enlivening broken dead pottery with gold. More beautiful because of the brokenness and more valuable by way of meticulous luxurious repair. The process God itself. I dared asked for it and was still surprised to receive it. The right chemistry.
The adventurousness in the audaciousness has pressed on the bandwidth of my capacity for social anxiety, a personal edge, where my adoration is consistent, which will only procure the judgements I myself hold which is to say there will be pain in response to the creation and without that there is …….. no relevance.
I tend to process a little more torturous when the chemistry heightens like this, but fuck I love the product, the writing as much as the new boobs.
I was once a woman with desire to clog her natural detoxification system with chemicals, unbeknownst, and for lengthy amounts of time. In the end a woman who understands the value of having had that experience.
So who was she, the disrupter of anatomical systems, disrupter of the intelligent human feminine anatomy?
I’ve both loved and hated the truth of the culture that has grown me, the US implant capital, Utah. Love and hate, the constant contradiction I feel here is comfortable, familiar. A similitude of the two houses I hail from, contradictions of each other, me the representative of both.
I am both the girl that would get implant and not at all, a contradiction of self, it’s clear to me now how much I liked it that way. The dissonance of this, drowns out alarms previous to the one horror scene present, terror producing awareness and necessity that my chemical tits needed to die.
The comedic factor is so redeeming.
Me, middle of the night sitting up straight o-60 possessed. My right hand on my left boob, though it never felt like mine, but I knew it was. The rush of chemicals surging palpably through the entirety of my body, informed trauma I could not escape regardless of the reality, it was already in response, what could I say. The energy as magnetic as the rubbing against a full body balloon.
I’ve proven to myself in more recent years that I will not run from reality or pretend to unsee or undo what is. So I let the reality run. which eventually found my extensive medical trauma resume, which meant we got to work promptly at 8 am the next morning.
Side note - my grandmother donated her body to science after she died, I guess this is my way of doing the same. Saying, hey, here is what was lived really. Might you study the resonance you find here? Make it all worthwhile for us both?
My affinity for pain is odd and maybe sadistic, but also, it produces genius level fuckery that I can't help but fall in love with.
The 8 am work, was of course research. And to put to utility my intimate knowing of the business we call healthcare, to navigate the Gotham alleyways and extract what was needed next, imaging. Which offered me very little in the way of professional reading, but the minimal bar of clarity I had hoped to achieve. (this is not just my experience, you need not take just my word for it, speak to any surgeon that needs imaging for diagnosis, like ortho dudes to find the rampant discrepancies.) We pay for our own ignorance.
The unidentified ‘never before seen bubble’ on an ultrasound couldn't be diagnosed, or even be reasonably considered an implant leaking, or at least some written suggestion of implant abnormality, by a radiologists specializing in breasts in the implant capital of the US? Sus.
Needless to say, I did my own reading. And drew me own conclusions. It was time for these implants to exit my human suit.
The path was undeniable, at least there was that.
Next on the agenda was to detour myself, which kept the alarm distracted enough for me to live with them I suppose.
I happened to have enormous affinity for the hard way, the edges where things are so unstable, that space and time do a thing I find interesting.
Perhaps what is both entirely right and wrong with me.
The detour was necessary, profitable, and unbelievably transformative in that it laid pre-work for the success of this golden surgery. I was not previously ready for this death and transition in this way and it’s just too good the way it is now, 2 years later, to not fully appreciate.
Another hindsight nugget that has tortured me, this energy about this experience as it is now in the integration process is legacy like.
and what is legacy?
What am I even saying to any version of me receiving or releasing body modification and toxins?
26 year old Audrey, thinking about getting implants, the artist and creator of YOUR lived experience.
Do it.
You’ll be in love with you in the end.
To be continued …….