image by nomnomvega
words by Georgia

My name is Georgia, I am 21 years old and yesterday I broke down hysterically crying when I went bra shopping with my mum. This has happened every single time I have ever been bra shopping from the age of about 14– you would think that over seven years that one would harden to the experience. I have not, and I am not sure if I ever will.

Before I begin I would like to highlight that this entire article is superficial. Of course it is; we all are. We have to be, because everything we see is initially superficial. The discovery of depth takes time, and we are currently bound to a society obsessed with the ‘instant’. Superficiality is part of the way we live, and even once the depths are discovered, those depths are still connected to a superficial surface and it would thus be naïve and wrong to reject surface appearance, to an extent.

For those who know me personally, you will know that I love being naked. I love wandering around in just my pants and I really don’t care who sees. The particularly bizarre thing about me is that I love being naked and I very rarely wear a bra, and yet have battled my entire life with what can only be described as humiliatingly small tits. I am totally humiliated by them, and yet I somehow manage to give off the impression that I am confident both with myself, and them, by always being partially naked. I say ‘them’ as though they are not a part of me truly because, in many ways they are not. It may come as a surprise to you, but I did not actually choose to have the body I have been given, and so it does seem rather strange to have been bullied for several years at school (even by those close to me) for something I never did. But such is the playground. In fact, such is life. I will not sit on any kind of high ground and deny that I have made fun of someone for the size of their nose, or the way they talk. Of course I have. And you have too.

It is as though I reside in the riddles we played with each other as children; ‘I like water, but I hate swimming’ or ‘I like shoes, but I hate boots’. The only explanation being that the said person hates all things with double letters. This is me. Except I will never have double letters. Just one tiny letter ‘A’ to define my sexuality. Anyway, the riddle is that I love baring my naked body to the world, and yet I entirely despise my body. I do. I could sit here and fault nearly every single aspect of the way my body is made, how disgusted I feel when I catch a glimpse of my stomach if I’m not holding it in, and yet there are photos of me in my underwear and swimwear all over the internet. The only possible explanation I have for this absurd duality is that I have had positive feedback for my body on many occasions – and it is this, and only this, that allows me to feel okay about myself. The sad reality is that I am so out of love with my body, that I feel the need to expose it in public in the hope that I will regain the self-esteem I cannot find within myself. It is also only in a carefully posed image that I start to look at myself with some glimmer of acceptance, and it is only through social media that I can present myself in a way that I think people will like. In fairness, I can see how it would be irritating to some; how much I go on about how I hate my body and yet there are photos of it all over the Internet. My only hope is that you may slowly start to understand that this is paradoxically a trait of low self-esteem, in my case – and perhaps some others – but certainly not all.

“The discovery of depth takes time, and we are currently bound to a society obsessed with the ‘instant’. Superficiality is part of the way we live, and even once the depths are discovered, those depths are still connected to a superficial surface and it would thus be naïve and wrong to reject surface appearance, to an extent. “

Perhaps you think my hatred for my body is false modesty, or perhaps even attention seeking. In fact, it is most likely that you think I am attention seeking. I can assure you that choking on tears aged 21 in a shopping mall surrounded by people, because I was faced with my own body, is not a false project of feeling looking for attention. That is unwanted attention. Again, falling back into the riddles of my personality, I would like to clarify that I never wear a bra. If I do wear a bra, it is made of lace and offers no support whatsoever – this is based on the fact that there is really nothing to support. The reason why I was bra shopping with my mother that day is because she demanded I start wearing a bra because I was verging on ‘inappropriate’, and she knew I wouldn’t fork out the cash to do this for myself. She made me promise in the morning that there would be no tears, and I promised there would be none. Later, after having broken my promise, my mother was extremely confused. She could not understand how I could be thrown into such a state of chaos over a piece of padded material designed to make me look like I have tits, when she knows my sentiments on my having no tits. The thing is, if I don’t wear a bra, I don’t have to conform to any mode of measurement. I can remain in denial about the fact that I have such small boobs by presenting them to the outside world as though it were no issue to me whatsoever. When I was boxed into the tiny, brightly lit cubicle, having fluctuating bra sizes thrown at me by a small Asian lady desperate to figure out what size would properly fit. The more I tried on, the more I had to look at myself naked and the more that didn’t fit, the more ridiculous I was made to feel.

The genuine truth is that having no boobs means that I don’t think I will ever really feel feminine or sexy. Boys have told me in the past that I’m sexy, and the comment I get most often is ‘I don’t like big boobs anyway’ or ‘I’m a bum man’. Great, so apparently I have a bum to make up for it. But honestly, my bum doesn’t make me feel sexy or womanly at all.

I simply cannot cope with all these ‘love yourself’ movements. Girls post pictures of their natural bodies with genuine love and confidence about themselves that I admire, respect and ultimately envy. The sad fact remains that I don’t think I will ever simply love my body for what it is. I don’t know if social media is to blame for that, or if it is something inherent within my personality.

But what I do NOT need is the latest idiotic trend, ‘The underboob pen challenge’.

The fact that girls are defining femininity and their womanhood by their ability to hold a pen under their breast is an outward reflection of all my self-doubts and insecurities summarised in one dumb Internet challenge. And it’s girls who are doing it. Girls who started it.

Headlines off the Internet read:

“In what is being called a test of true womanhood, women are snapping pics of their boobs holding pens”

“Young women are demonstrating their femininity”

“Girls are being challenged to prove they are a ‘true woman’”

Brilliant. Thank you world. Thank you world for confirming that I will never be a ‘true woman’ because of my body type. Because I lack the sacks of fat to hold an instrument for writing, I shall now never be feminine. It amazes me that at a time of such body-positive progression, at a time in such a shift in attitudes towards beauty, at a time of redefining gender issues, that this would be even catch trend.

“Currently there is a huge push to redefine women, to make them love their bodies as they are and not feel the pressure of social media. However, I cannot help but feel that this too is a pressure within itself.”

The main problem with it, is for girls like me, I do not have the self confidence to reassure myself that this is all a load of nonsense and that I should love myself for who I am. That I should tell myself it is not my fault that I don’t have big boobs, that I should embrace my small boobs and love my body. Currently there is a huge push to redefine women, to make them love their bodies as they are and not feel the pressure of social media. However, I cannot help but feel that this too is a pressure within itself. My Instagram feed is flooded with girls promoting self-love, right along side images of perfect girls with bodies I will never achieve. Everyday I am presented with this dichotomy – but I don’t care what you tell me, I cannot love my body. I have always, and I am beginning to reach the conclusion that I will always, be out of love with my body. It is sad. But are men made to embrace their small dicks? Truly? Are they? No.

I cannot love my body, and so this new ‘trend’ is damaging. And humiliating. If I’m not humiliated enough on my own, the only thing I am mentally preparing myself for is the fact that some idiot if going to jokingly ‘share’ this trend with me and I’m going to have to laugh about it. Like I always do. I don’t want to have to make jokes at my own expense anymore. I’m tired of people thinking they can make fun of me for something that causes me, aged 21, to cry in a public space (seriously this needs to stop). I’m tired of there being no solution to my problem except to save enough money to eventually get myself a boob job.

I want to end this article by saying a huge ‘fuck you’ to traditional definitions of femininity and beauty, but truthfully I enforce them upon myself equally as much as social media does. Perhaps it is the fact that I have been called ‘beautiful’ or ‘fit’ that puts the greatest pressure on me to feel these things, when I do not. I feel I must somehow live up to the way I am perceived by these people, but because I cannot see it myself, it is both exhausting and impossible.

I hope that my rambling has resonated with some people; although I appreciate that I may be a rather peculiar case (with all my riddles), and my audience narrow (those who cannot do this miraculous pen holding).

I started writing this because I was so enraged by this ‘Underboob pen’ business, and seem to have gone off at a tangent, so I would like to end where I begun with a polite plead:

Please do not define womanhood by the size of a girl’s breasts; it undermines all the work women in the past have done for us.

Thank you.