Leave me alone.

Why I cannot let go.
I didn’t have a biological family. Simply didn’t have one. But I had friends who were like family. For decades. Now they are gone. In the darkest and in the best time of my life. How can I live without them?

People ask me if I still haven’t got over them. What can I say but “Not at all.”
I can hardly breathe.

There are days when I hate them so much that my head throbs. And there are days when my throat is tied up from the swallowed tears and the forced smile.

Nothing is as it was. Everything is as it was. I am devastated. Heart-broken. Completely lost.

Happy. Content. Comfortable.

I can never talk about my breasts, my scars without comments from others like: “But you’re alive.”

Why do people always have to say something? Is shutting up so difficult?
How can you know how I feel after 5 operations?

I cannot shave my armpits anymore, for two reasons. #1: The skin is too tight and in waves, so I would cut myself. #2: I get sick, feel like throwing up, when my husband tries to shave me, because of the damaged nerves.

I don’t want to wear bras anymore. Why should I? My left implant is like an apple glued to my ribs. It doesn’t need a bra. My right breast is virtually non-existent.

I look like Frankenstein’s monster. Parts of my back have been transferred to my breast, so now my breast looks like a quilt.

The scar on my back runs from my spine to my armpit.

I loved my back. It was beautiful. Strong, athletic, perfect. It’s maimed now. But hey, “you’re alive” should do the job.

I help others to feel good. I function. I am optimistic. I am positive. I live.

But if I utter the tiniest, weeniest bit of “I wish I had normal breasts and a whole back”, it’s the good old “be grateful” and “don’t whine/complain”.

I am THE incarnation of gratefulness. Gratefulness is my middle name. Even after five hours of surgery I didn’t whine, didn’t complain, but thanked every nurse and every doctor for every fucking needle they stuck in me, simply because they helped me.

I have nobody to talk to. My two friends that I shared everything with have left me.

I have to lie to my kids. I have to lie to my pupils. My load is so heavy, I’m bent.

On the inside I walk like a very old beast. I am no longer a proper woman.

The hormones I have to AND desperately want to take have put me through menopause. I am still young. My ovaries have shrunken, but hey, “You’re alive. Stop whining. Be grateful.”

Nope. I am alone.

So stop getting on my tits. I don´t have any anymore anyway.

Yours, lonely,

Maid Manu.

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