My body as a weapon

Elementary. Elementary was the first time I realized that my body could be used against me and in my own advantage. See, I noticed the guys around me would congregate to speak to me. Not for any reason other than I had boobs. I was the first girl in my class to get boobs. I knew this and thought, “well, I hit the jackpot.” Then almost as fast came the downside. I was on my way home on the school bus when the new boy who sat behind me reached over and grabbed my boobs. I screamed and ducked down in fear. My friends around me yelled at him and told him to move, but nothing else came of it. He said it was an accident. He wanted to reach over and ask me something, and my boobs “got in the way.” Another time some friends and I were waiting for the bus in these weird bus lines, the school would put us in. Like most of the other girls, I was leaning back holding myself up with my hands. One of my male friends asked me to change positions. Said I was making him uncomfortable and making it hard for him to concentrate on what the group was saying. That’s when I notice he wasn’t speaking to me. He hadn’t taken his eyes off my boobs. I apologized and felt embarrassed. I rushed to grab my backpack and cover myself. My body once again was being a problem. My shirts began to get too tight, and others around me began to call me an attention whore. Said I was trying to show off my boobs. I was accused of stuffing my bras. I had to adpat. Soon I began to associate my life with my boobs. I would make sure to flaunt them in a way to use as a weapon.
Sadly, in my juvenile eyes, came a new girl. Boobs as big as mine. This threatened the image I had created for myself. An image I used to protect myself. So I did what I once came home crying over. I told friends that she was stuffing her bra. That she was jealous. And soon, the same treatment began for her. I still haven’t forgiven myself, but at the time, I had no other choice. My boobs were how I protected myself. If I embraced the image of “big boobed girl,” then no one would make me feel bad about them. I began to identify with my boobs. No, not with but as. I saw my self-worth as being my boobs. It felt better this way. If I only saw myself as a sexual object, then others treating me as such meant nothing. I had power. But turning my body into my weapon turned against me once I was no longer unique. Once everyone else began puberty, I was just another girl who had boobs. Nothing more. My once perfect identity became nothing.

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