Costume fittings were my hell when I did theater in middle school. My body didn’t fit my age, and my boobs didn’t fit my body. I was either in a “sassy” dress inappropriate for my age or drowning in my mom’s clothes. Three women in their 50s with measuring tape would look at me with pity.
“You’ll appreciate them when you’re older.”
I’d grow to, kind of.
I have big boobs. 34DDDs, to be exact. In a Southern Italian family, having huge tits is a generational curse – a whole matriarchal line of back pain and unwanted attention from men.
In third grade, I wore a training bra, the first in my class to do so. I hated it. It was uncomfortable, I didn’t understand why I had to have it on and I’d skip wearing it when I could. One of those days I was playing at recess, chest clad in nothing but a white shirt. My mom, who was a teacher at my school, saw and pulled me inside. She took me to the nurse’s office and explained that I needed a different shirt. The nurse looked at my 9-year-old boobs and agreed. No one told me what was wrong with my body.
By 11, I was a B cup. One year later, I was fitted for DDDs. My mom didn’t like it; she knew what it was like to be in my position. However, she also didn’t say what was wrong with looking mature for my age. I wanted to wear the clothes my friends were wearing, and hated that they looked different on me. Screaming matches between my mom and I in fitting rooms were routine. She didn’t know how to explain that she was protecting me, and I didn’t know how to explain that I was mortified in my own body.
At first, I didn’t get the attention my mom was worried about. I was a bit of a weird kid and still hadn’t shed my baby weight. Though, that changed the summer before my freshman year of high school. My figure was becoming more defined, and I met a 17-year-old boy. He asked me out, I said yes. He was the first boy to do so, and my first kiss. He ended things within the month.
It was whatever, though, because new kids started attending my school, and they noticed me. Suddenly, I was known as the freshman with big tits. But I didn’t mind. I was getting attention in a way I never had before. My body was doing something good for me. I would send naked pictures to a sophomore I never talked to in person. I didn’t know any better. I was finally pretty, because of my boobs.
After my 15th birthday, the 17-year-old re-entered my life, now 18 and more aggressive. He asked me to be his girlfriend, and I said yes. My first boyfriend! A week later, he begged me to have sex with him, and I said no. The next day, I was dumped. I lost my virginity a week after while on a family vacation to prove that I could. The guy blocked my Instagram as soon as the cruise debarked.
The rest of my teenage years were filled with meeting men who’d make me feel awful about myself. They loved the boobs – loathed the personality. I fell for the love bombing every time, but maybe I wanted to. What other affection was I getting?
Until recently, I felt unlovable. I don’t anymore – maybe I’ve aged into wisdom, maybe I’ve just grown tired. I’ve learned to live with my DDDs, and to be kinder to the rest of myself.
Still, I wish in my youth someone slapped me so I’d snap out of it, but no one did. Not even a little pinch.
I wish we could do better for our pre-teens with big tits. One day, I was out at recess in a white shirt without my training bra underneath. My mom, who was a teacher at my school, pulled me inside. She took me to the nurse’s office, and explained that I needed a different shirt. The nurse looked at my 9-year-old boobs, and agreed. No one told me what was wrong with my body.
I was a B cup at age 11. One year later, I was being fitted for DDDs. My mom didn’t like it, she knew what it was like to be in that position. However, she didn’t say what was wrong with looking mature for my age. I wanted to wear the clothes my friends were wearing, and was frustrated that they looked different on me. Screaming matches between my mom and I in fitting rooms were our routine. She didn’t know how to explain that she was protecting me, and I didn’t know how to explain that I was mortified in my own body.
Though I had big boobs in middle school, I didn’t get attention from the boys in my grade. I was a bit of a weird kid, and still had a lot of baby weight. Then, the summer before my freshman year of highschool, I met a 17-year-old boy. He asked me out and I said yes. He was the first boy to do so, my first kiss, and I was 14 and he was 17. He ended things within the month.
I glowed up, if you will, that summer, and a bunch of new kids started attending my school. I was known as the freshman with big tits, but I didn’t mind. I was getting attention in a way that I never had before. I didn’t know what it actually meant, other than that my body was finally doing something for me. I would send naked pictures to a sophomore who I never talked to in person, something that I still cringe at. I didn’t know any better. I was finally pretty, because of my boobs.
That 17-year-old did re-enter my life fairly quickly, but now he was 18 (I was 15) and more aggressive. He asked me to be his girlfriend, and I said yes. My first boyfriend! A week later, he begged me to have sex with him, and I said no. The next day, I was dumped.
For the rest of my teenage years I continued to meet men who’d make me feel awful about my body. I want to go back in time and slap my old self, to make her realize she deserved better and that she wasn’t just a pair of tits.I don’t think this anymore, but I wish someone told me then.
I’ve learned to live with my DDDs. They’re far from the only thing my body is doing for me, and I’ve learned how to be kind to it. I hope all the fellow pre-teens with big tits know that they’re not alone, and that you don’t have to feel uncomfortable in your own skin.
