Tits

Awful word: tits. I hate it. I’ve nothing against breasts – I possess two! It’s the word, tits, specifically. Of all the words for breasts that one just irks me. To me it sounds insulting which is daft because breasts are not insulting and that’s just a word for breasts so what’s the problem? It’s quite a hard sounding word I suppose.

Well, it’s what my husband loves about me apparently – my tits. Over our 13 years together I’ve asked him a few times what is the best bit of me, my best feature, why he loves me. The answer is always the same “your tits”. Right. You see I ask this question craving to hear something good about myself. I hate myself and feel like I shouldn’t exist. My husband is the person in the world who knows me the best so my hope has always been that he might see something in me, something good. Instead it’s two fatty lumps on my front. I’m not sure why my breasts are particularly special over any other women’s.  I know what you’ll be thinking, poor guy being asked such a loaded question but it’s not like that. He never ever says anything positive about my personality and obviously I crave to hear something positive about my personality, about who I am. Now with my borderline personality disorder diagnosis that craving makes a lot of sense. 

I accept who he is. I recognise that spontaneously telling me that he loves my sense of humour or ambition or caring nature or whatever just isn’t going to happen. There won’t ever be a special message written in a card. That’s just not him. However I have this need and it doesn’t seem that big an ask, if I’m honest, to know what it is that my loves about me. My tits. In more recent times I’ve tried to help him out “no silly! I mean something about me! As a person!” (I laugh, keeping it light, whilst silently praying he’ll actually have something more appropriate to offer).

“Your arse”.

Then I crumble inside. My tits and my arse. Brilliant. That’s totally what I meant. That’s exactly the sort of reaffirming thing I want to be told by my soulmate. 

 

I’m not being funny but my ears would look banging in a nice bra….

 
If it was a one off then fair enough but it’s not. It’s 13 years of not hearing anything good about myself (disclaimer: he does say I’m clever and that I’m a good mother. However these are used in arguments, not as compliments but as ammunition against me. It’s his way of saying how easy I have it compared to him.) Obviously there wasn’t much in the way of praise from my parents and if it did come it was backhanded (you probably could have been a good swimmer with such broad shoulders…that type of thing). 

So there we have it. Next time I feel utterly despicable I can just remember that my husband loves my tits. That’ll get me through. Although after breastfeeding two kids and our good friend gravity I wouldn’t say they’re anything to write home about (despite doing a blog about them!). Oh dear. To have my own husband choose “tits” as the best thing about me leaves me feeling pretty hollow. Empty. Yet I know he loves me, I know he cares about far more than my breasts. It’d just be really, really awesome to have that explicitly pointed out…maybe every few years?

So…tits. Right. Well, I would say it’s all down from here for my breasts.

So where does that leave me? Oh right.
Arse.

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