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Shifting awkwardly in the uncomfortable chair, I crossed my legs, then
uncrossed them again. 'try to relax, Christine' the psychiatrist said.
'
Take it from the beginning.'
I looked down at my hands. Where on earth do I start?
'My problems began when I was 19...' I said.
Back then, I was married with two kids - Lorraine, three, and
six-month-old Michelle. And I was worried. My husband Keith had grown distant, would pull away when I snuggled up close in bed. The reason why seemed obvious. No, not an affair.
My awful breasts.
Breastfeeding two babies had left my 34B cups floppy and flat.
'That's when the obsession with my breasts began. 'I told the psychiatrist now.
Every problem encountered, they took the blame.
It was their fault Keith and I drifted apart, their fault we
split the following year.
Moving back in with Mum, I'd spend hours sobbing about how I looked.
I couldn't bear to see them, stuffed my tiny bras with rolled up socks.
I begged my doctor for a breast op on the NHS, but was turned down.
'If you have more children, they'll only sag again,' he informed me.
Children? I had to meet a man first. A man prepared to put up
with my deformity. Because that's how I felt - disfigured.
Yet, somehow, Alan King fell in love with me, six years on.
He was an RAC man, and we'd met after my old ford Escort had broken down.
Alan 34, was laid-back, cheeky. I thought he looked a bit like
Noel Edmunds.
But when we kissed and his hand pressed to my chest, I immediately pulled
back.
Alan looked startled. So I admitted how I hated my bosoms.
'Please don't worry,' he said.
But I wouldn't let him anywhere near the breasts, not even when we made
love.
Undressing in the bathroom, I'd keep my padded bra on, slip a nightie over the top.
Back in the bedroom, Alan soon learnt the rules. The curtains had to be pulled tight, the door shut and the lights clicked off. There was to be no touching above the waist.
'How about we make love by candlelight?' Alan suggested after we'd
been together three years.
He'd still never seen me naked, never even seen me in a bra.
I shook my head. I couldn't risk him seeing me, even in shadows.
By the age of 32, rather than growing to accept my body, I loathed my
breasts even more.
I'd see celebrities with beautiful breasts on TV or in newspapers.
I imagined how perfect my life would be if I had a chest like that.
My two girls developed lovely big breasts as teenagers. I became fixated on comparing everyone with myself. One day, when I saw a fat
bloke walking along, his man-boobs jiggling, I realised I actually envied
him.
'That's when I reached a real low,' I told the psychologist, wiping away a
tear.
I'd begun to believe Alan was leering at other women................cont
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