We interrupt this break in blogging... for a blog post.

I took a break from blogging because for the next 12-18 months, there won't be a ton to update. But for those who wonder: I am healing. 

There's no physical pain. I have two disfigured lumps of skin that lay on my chest like deflated balloons. They are saggy and lopsided. Patten calls them my 'broken boobies' and sometimes asks when the doctor is going to fix them.

Honestly, I don't know when revisiting reconstruction will be realistic. With a new baby, there's just no good time for me to have a 2 lb lift limit. 

In the meantime, most days I wear a padded strapless bra, mainly because the majority of my work wardrobe requires at least some small boobies in order to lay well. Sometimes I just wear a sports bra with a sock shoved into one side, mainly just to achieve some balance. At home, I usually go braless.

For the most part, it all doesn't phase me too much. Sometimes I look at what is left of my breasts and feel unsexy and unattractive, and like I need to cover them up. But I know in my heart that anyone who ever sees me undressed is someone who loves me, unconditionally, and I need to not worry.

A bright side? (You know, aside from the whole not-getting-cancer bit...) I was shopping at Target recently and reveled in my ability to pick out a sundress with spaghetti straps. Before the mastectomy, I always wore heavy duty bras with wide shoulder straps. Spaghetti straps were never a part of my reality. I may have ugly, disfigured boobies, but I CAN WEAR SPAGHETTI STRAPS!

None of this though, is what inspired me to write today. Rather, it was something I noticed in the bathroom this afternoon.

I was finishing up my business and pulling up my pants when out of the corner of my eye, I saw the bathroom scale. 

I thought, "Where have you been?!!" But then I couldn't remember if the scale had actually ever left. 

I will admit that prior to six or so months ago, I had a very different relationship with that scale. It was a daily stop on my way to the shower. Not that the numbers fluctuated much, and not like I did much with the 'data' I collected each time I stepped on it, but it was routine; Every. Single. Day. Every day I looked down at the number and felt the pressure.

But I guess at some point, I stopped. I don't even know exactly when... maybe late last year? I don't know the last time I weighed myself. 

I wonder why the change? Part of me thinks it has to be tied to BRCA2 and the mastectomy. 

I took control of my body. I am in charge. Society can think what they want of me, but I will not be a slave to societal pressure on what a body 'should' look like. I am not 100% confident, but my priorities have certainly shifted. 

Amazing. Liberating.