The correct answer was yes, but I couldn’t bring myself to say it. I’d never discussed how I felt about my breasts with anyone before. I sat there shaking my head, trying not to cry. It had never struck me as sad that I hated my breasts.
“How does Jeremy feel about them?”
“I’m sure he thinks it’s weird that I sleep in a bra.”
Dr. Rosen’s eyebrows disappeared into his scalp. Everyone else gasped as if I’d just confessed to murdering baby gorillas. The Colonel looked more animated than he’d been since the time Carlos mentioned lesbian porn.
“Are you curious about why you sleep in a bra?” Dr. Rosen asked.
A fist of anger filled my mouth. “I know what you’re doing! This is where I’m supposed to remember something my dad or uncle or the skeevy gym teacher did or said. I don’t have one of those things. Everything that’s happened to me has been run-of-the-mill—”
“Nothing about Hawaii sounded run-of-the-mill,” Rory said.
“That’s insane! David’s drowning isn’t the reason that I’m wearing all these bras.”
“Are you curious why you are?” Dr. Rosen repeated the question, steady and calm.
“There’s no story. I was a young girl who wanted to be thin because everybody loves thin girl bodies. Because I was into ballet, an art form built on anorexia, and breasts are not thin. They are filled with fat. They make it hard to shop for tops at J.Crew and Anthropologie. They make me feel fat.” I adjusted my tank top so all the bra straps were hidden. “Welcome to the female body in America, buddy.”
“Do you want some help?” Dr. Rosen sat still as a bird of prey.
Why hadn’t I picked a female therapist? I didn’t believe that my male therapist could fathom my relationship to my breasts. Sure he was in recovery for an eating disorder, but he’d never been shopping with his grandmother in Waxahachie, Texas, and overheard the saleslady say that his breasts made him look much “fuller” than he was. He’d never had a ballet teacher advise him to go on an egg diet—three eggs for breakfast, lunch, and dinner and nothing else—when his breast buds appeared. He’d never walked by Hooters in downtown Houston and endured drunk men leering at his chest. Even if he had perfect scores in every subject at Harvard and a genius-like understanding of group dynamics, a man simply cannot know how it feels to walk the planet as a woman. But I nodded—yes, I want some help— because getting inadequate help from my male therapist was better than nothing.
“Get a henna tattoo on your belly that says ‘I hate my breasts.’ ”
“Hate? I thought we were aiming for love and acceptance.”
Dr. Rosen shook his head. “First accept the hate. Stop trying to outrun it.” He gestured to my shoulders and the bras. “Take Jeremy with you.”
19
Jeremy and I pulled up to a crumbly industrial warehouse building on the corner of Racine and Grand. I pressed the buzzer that read Big Ernie. Big Ernie advertised himself in the Chicago Reader as a magician, dog walker, and henna tattoo artist. He buzzed us up, and we took the stairs to the second floor, where a man with a long black ponytail dressed in black genie pants greeted us from the doorway of his apartment. He could have been thirty or fifty years old—it was impossible to pinpoint. His warm smile soothed me, and the fifteen-foot ceilings in his loft made me feel like a prop in a dollhouse. The brick walls had been painted a lacquer white. He told us to take a seat in his living room while he prepared the henna. I took the couch and Jeremy crouched by the fireplace, where one hundred Pez dispensers were arranged in perfect order, like colorful, cartoon versions of white crosses in a military cemetery.
I’d called Big Ernie right after my second group the morning I made the mistake of wearing two bras to group. I’d told the ladies all about my prescription. They all nodded when I described my lifelong hatred of my breasts and shared their own stories. A man had recently grabbed Nan’s breast while she shopped for lipstick at Marshall Field’s. Zenia’s dad had commented on her breasts all her life. Mary was ashamed her breasts were so small. Emily described a fight she’d had with her husband after he’d grabbed her breast playfully while they were watching The Daily Show. That was when I covered my mouth with my hands and started to cry.
* * *
I was sixteen. Junior prom. I wore a size-ten Laura Ashley strapless black dress that had a sweetheart neckline and a spray of giant pink gardenias across the front. I’d been going to the tanning salon every other day for four weeks, so my skin was an unnatural shade of brown-orange and tingled with almost-pain from staying too long in the coffin-shaped booth. My date, Matt, and I barely knew each other; we’d been thrown together after everyone else had coupled up. He was a few years from announcing he was gay. After the corsage-boutonniere exchange and dinner, a caravan of us stopped at a park to pound beers and wine coolers pilfered from parents’ bars. The sweet fizziness of berry wine cooler sloshed in my stomach and made my head go fuzzy. The ground under my feet felt pleasantly unsteady, like trying to walk on a water bed. I remembered standing next to Jared Meechum’s black Cherokee, surrounded by ten guys.
We were all laughing. Slurry clouds drifted by, hiding the moon every few minutes.
Jared approached me with a dare in his eye. My hands were at my sides—one clutched an empty Bartles & Jaymes bottle, one had gathered a handful of dress to keep me steady. I smelled the beer on his lips and saw the mound of dip bulging in his lower lip. I was midlaugh when he reached two fingers down the front of my dress between my breasts. I finished my laugh as if nothing happened, because I wasn’t sure it had.
Had it? He’d stepped away quickly so it was easy to blame my sloshy stomach, my fuzzy brain. My breasts were so smushed into the dress that the sensation was muffled, and the memory easily dissolved.
I upended the bottle in my hand and licked the last drop from the rim.
Spencer was next. He did it quick-like and avoided my eyes. He had the decency to blush. But shame didn’t stop him from whispering to P.J. and Tad, both of whom seemed to tower over me as they slid their two fingers between my breasts. I watched the tops of the trees, swaying just so in the breeze even though the night was still and thick with late-spring humidity. My hands gripped harder at the dress and the bottle. There was nothing else to reach for.
The clouds continued to skate past the moon.
Where were the other girls? Where was my date? Why was I still laughing, acting like I was having the time of my life with these good Catholic boys I’d known all my life? I’d been longing for any of them to ask me on a date, to invite me to dance, to call me, kiss me, want me. Each of them was dating one of my friends. This was the first time any of them had ever touched me.
Jared appeared for a second time. On this pass, he stuck his whole hand between my breasts. Only then did I step back. Only then did I feel the crush of shame slamming through the buzz, the dress, the laughter. Only then did I let myself understand that they were laughing at me.
I continued to laugh.
Laughing, laughing, laughing. The sound of it covered so much—it covered the whole Texas sky with its false notes that disguised my terror.
My group sat quietly as I said the names of those tall Catholic boys and how their clammy hands felt down my dress.
* * *
Now Big Ernie’s soft wet brush on my exposed belly tickled, but I wasn’t laughing. I stared at the ceiling and squeezed Jeremy’s hand. An expectant feeling tickled my throat. It was a cry or a scream—I couldn’t tell which—but I wasn’t letting whatever it was out in front of the Yogi Bear and Flintstones candy dispensers. I kept my eyes on the ceiling and never looked down.
Back at Jeremy’s place, I stood in the bathroom and surveyed my tattoo, the top layer of which was a crust I peeled off. Smooth burnt-orange swirls and curlicues danced over my belly button and adorned the script: I hate my breasts. Honestly, it looked and felt hokey as hell. Still, I held my hand over it as I called Rory to report my food, and Marty for my affirmation.
<
br /> I slipped off my bra before putting on Jeremy’s soft black T-shirt with the words Ars Technica printed across the chest. He found me curled in his bed under the covers and asked if he could join me.
I scooted over to make room for him and unfurled my body. He shook off his jeans and got into bed with his boxers and T-shirt on. I rolled into his body with my arms still curled into my chest in a protective X. I took a deep breath. Then another. I relaxed my arms and let them rest at my side. Tears welled from the tender part of my chest where all that breast hatred had lived for so long.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I’ve been very afraid.” He smoothed the back of my head with his palm.
“Me too.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Me either.” He held me closer.
I kept crying, imagining the dye on my belly seeping through my skin and joining my bloodstream.
20
Jeremy waited for me in the lobby of the law library, head buried in a battered Nietzsche book. I slipped my hand into his. “Let’s head up Michigan Avenue.” I’d been dreaming of the two of us, hand in hand, walking down the strip of Michigan Avenue famously nicknamed “the Magnificent Mile” for its dazzling array of shops and restaurants. This time of year Christmas lights hung from every lamppost, and Salvation Army volunteers dressed as Santa rang bells in front of Neiman Marcus.
My fantasy was a nice dinner followed by sex at my place. I’d been holed up in the library all Saturday studying criminal procedure. It was early December. Finals time. My job at Skadden was locked down and everyone said that your third-year grades didn’t matter, but I wanted to keep my class rank. My back ached from hunching over the textbook as I mastered the laws governing arrest and detention. I’d decided it was time to master my relationship. I was sick of Dr. Rosen controlling my love life. My relationship needed some leadership, and I was ready to step up. The kissing and light petting were gratifying, but I was hungry for more. Starving, really.
The wind off the lake hit my chest. I burrowed deeper into my coat and closer to Jeremy. The sidewalk was jammed with tourists carrying huge holiday bags from the Disney Store and Ralph Lauren. Jeremy got whacked in the thigh with an oversize Crate & Barrel bag. He scowled and pressed the pace. I lengthened my stride to keep up.
“Where are we going?”
“I can’t take the crowds.” He turned off Michigan Avenue.
I swallowed my disappointment in two gulps. My fantasy reel didn’t include side streets—we were supposed to be on Michigan Avenue under the holiday lights and in the fray, where life was pulsing with energy and cheer.
Half a block up, he ducked into a California Pizza Kitchen. More gulps. My fantasy reel definitely didn’t include a chain pizzeria packed with suburban teenagers.
“Want to share a pizza and a salad?” I said.
“Nah, I’m going to get a sausage calzone. I can polish it off on my own.” I nodded hard. I ordered a California veggie personal pizza and a side salad with Italian vinaigrette.
He’d spent the day playing video games. I pushed down the bubble of contempt that my boyfriend, a grown-ass man within spitting distance of his fortieth birthday, spent his day trying to win the Amulet of Yendor. I’d run four miles, gone to a 12-step meeting, and studied for a criminal procedure exam for four hours.
Conversation stalled. When the food came, I wanted to mouth “help” to the waitress.
Telepathically, I informed her that I was drowning in the dead space between me and my boyfriend, who still wasn’t ready for sex after almost two months.
Jeremy punctured his calzone and a puff of steam escaped. I moved the tomato slice from the high-noon spot on my plate to six thirty, and thought of things to say that would make him want to take me to bed.
“Want a bite of my salad?”
When we got back to my place, Clare and Steven were on their way to Lincoln Park to listen to live music. “Come with, you guys,” Clare said, throwing her coat over her shoulders.
Before I could open my mouth to ask where, Jeremy said, “I’m going to hit the hay.” He saluted Clare and Steven and beelined to my bedroom.
Clare whispered, “Get you some, Tater,” and wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.
I played along. “Don’t wake me in the morning!”
By the time I’d turned off the living room lights and walked into my bedroom, Jeremy was a snoring mound. I sat on the bed roughly, hoping to jostle him awake. I propped myself on a pillow and stared at a shadow on the wall. What exactly, I wondered, made me so different from Clare, whose boyfriend wanted to touch her and talk to her all night? Was it my years of bulimia? Was I subconsciously pushing Jeremy away? I knew I was attached to Dr. Rosen and my group mates. Why couldn’t I do that with a man? I wasn’t afraid of sex like Dr. Rosen insisted—I wanted to have it with Jeremy right then.
The clock glowed eight forty-five. Five minutes earlier than the end point of my abortive date with Sam. Disappointment and anger—at Jeremy, myself, Dr. Rosen, my groups, and this whole stupid night—rushed through me, making my fingers twitch. I sighed loudly. Jeremy didn’t budge, so I climbed out of bed. In the cabinet under the kitchen sink, I found the box of mismatched plates and glass tumblers I’d brought from my old apartment. Clare and I kept an Ace Hardware hammer in the junk drawer for various home improvement projects that we never actually did. I took the box and the hammer and nudged open the balcony door with my elbow.
Hammer raised, chest heaving. Smash. Shattered bits of glass flew across the balcony. My bare knees scraped the concrete. Smash. Smash. Smash. My cheeks burned from effort, from the cold.
* * *
Rory and Carlos gasped.
“Did you protect your face?” Patrice asked.
I’d felt driven to smash. My body simply couldn’t hold the impulses to bring the hammer down. I was brimming with rage. All I knew was that if I didn’t destroy those dishes, I was going to turn that hammer on myself.
“Were you hoping to wake him up?” Patrice asked.
“I guess. But the breaking was purely physical, like sneezing or—”
“Vomiting,” Dr. Rosen said.
“Yes! It was like having something in my body that felt—” What was the word?
“Toxic?”
“Exactly! Something that my body had to eject.”
“Vomiting is your body preventing you from dying of food poisoning,” Dr. Rosen said. “This anger is old. It’s the anger you used to puke up, but it’s still in there. By avoiding an intimate relationship, you’ve been able to avoid feeling this.”
“I’ve been enraged with you. Remember when you marched us to your office to listen to my voice mail?”
“We’re not sexually involved.”
“Fair point.” I understood the difference. To Jeremy I offered my body and I wanted his in return. But it wasn’t working. “So what do I do now?”
The answer I would have accepted: break up with Jeremy. But Dr. Rosen suggested that I keep expressing my rage and invite Jeremy to join me. As if Jeremy would budge for me and my hammer.
“The question is whether you’re willing to ask.” What good would it do? I slumped down. Dr. Rosen seemed willfully blind to the obstacles.
“You honestly think I should stay in this relationship?”
“It’s just getting good—”
“But it’s totally dysfunctional.”
“Not totally.”
“Did you hear that story? I was on my twenty-eighth-floor balcony whacking at discounted stemware with a hammer in the middle of the night!”
“You said it was nine o’clock.” The Colonel smirked across the circle.
My spittle flew in all directions when I told him to fuck off. I banged on the arms of the chair. “Help me!”
“I fully support your anger,” Dr. Rosen said, smooth as a chalkboard.
“I want more from you. Give me something more.”
“Buy safety goggle
s.”
Three hours later, I stormed into the noon group and told Dr. Rosen to fuck off. The group leaned in as I told them about the dishes, and about Dr. Rosen and his safety goggles. Marnie side-eyed Dr. Rosen and accused him of not helping me. Emily suggested that Jeremy and I “take a break.”
“I need more from you, Dr. Rosen.” I was banging the same chair arms I’d abused that morning.
Dr. Rosen said nothing. He shifted his gaze around the room just like normal, letting me yell at him.
I slithered to the floor. I screamed into the carpet. Over and over, nonsense words of rage. Guttural sounds of exertion poured into the floor, shimmering over to the other women’s feet. The more I yelled and beat the carpet with my coiled fists, the deeper I fell into a black hole of despair. Sweat rolled down my neck and my hair stuck to my forehead.
* * *
When I was in third or fourth grade, my parents planned a family beach vacation to Padre Island. My dad steered our cloud-blue station wagon, brimming with rafts, sunscreen, and beach towels, south toward the coast. Halfway through the eight-hour drive, the weather reports turned ominous: a hurricane had changed course and was zooming toward the curled tip of Texas, just miles from where we were headed. My parents said we wouldn’t make it. Too dangerous. A new plan developed. We’d check in at a Holiday Inn in Houston and hang out with my mom’s friend from high school. Maybe visit NASA. The next morning, in the hotel pool, my brother and sister splashed and frolicked while I moped in the shallow end. Come on, Christie. Get in the pool. Have some peanuts. Check out the ice machine down the hall. I wouldn’t. Or couldn’t. I’d had a picture in my mind of the moat I wanted to dig around my sand castle, and this stupid hotel pool in the middle of this humid, concrete city didn’t fit in my imagination. Whatever skills my siblings had that allowed them to pivot, readjust, and find joy in the detour, I lacked. I could only seethe in silence, swallowed up by my internal gale-force fury and disappointment. My family, unsure of how to reach me, eventually let me be. No one had any tools to offer me then, or later when I didn’t get ballet solos, or boyfriends broke up with me, or I didn’t get into the graduate program I wanted. All I’d ever done with anger was swallow it or throw it up. Now it was pouring out, messy and loud.
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