little pimples on my forehead before I was in high school. By fifth grade, I was wearing padded cups, and by my freshman year, I was in DD territory.
I often felt self-conscious, so I wore a lot of bigger shirts with baggy sleeves that helped hide my curves. My nightmare was the intimates department at Dillard's, where an older woman would put her cold hands around my back and inform me that I went up another cup size. Eventually, I grew to accept that I didn't look like other teenage girls. I sometimes even liked it. As I matured, I grew to like and even.
But living in this body had its pain points. There were pervy guys who asked me about the melons I was smuggling under my sweater, and others who attempted to hit on me, not realizing I was much too young. At the same time, my friends made comments about how they would kill for my breasts, which made me feel guilty for my pangs of self-loathing.I tried to tell myself that this is a gift, and that I should love and accept my body exactly as it is, but being so busty began to take a physical toll.
In the end, my choice to surgically alter my body is exactly that: my choice. That would be true even if I were doing it purely for cosmetic reasons, but I'm not. The fact that breast reduction is even viewed that way is ridiculous. This is something that's affecting not only my mental and emotional health, but also my physical wellbeing, and that makes it a medical procedure.