On Hormones, pt. 1

This post might be a bit longer, as I’m not really sure how I can break it up. Or maybe not; won’t know until I finish it.

A couple of years ago, I was just about to turn 25. Thus, two things: you now know my age, and the time was counting down until I would no longer qualify for my parents’ insurance. While mowing one day, I had an epiphany, as is often the case when one mows. I needed to get a physical, and I needed to get it soon.

I spoke with my parents about scheduling an appointment, stating that I wanted to have my prostate checked. I pee way more often than most people, and it takes me a good while to do it sometimes: key symptoms of prostate problems. They agreed that it was a good idea. Besides, I was getting to be that age where you want to start having physicals once in a while.

While I was genuinely curious about my frequent urination, that was not the only reason I wanted to have a checkup. I also wanted my hormones tested.

You see, ever since I learned what hormones were in my fifth grade sex ed class, I had a weird gut feeling that mine were off. I didn’t know why I felt this way, I didn’t even really understand what my teacher had been describing, but I did hold this opinion of myself from then on.

The next sign, once again one that I did not understand, began when I started puberty shortly thereafter. For whatever reason, I started to develop breasts. Not big ones, mind you, but because I was so small, they were noticeable nonetheless. Noticeable to the point that people commented on them from time to time, or even teased me about them.

Of course, I was ashamed. I was bullied pretty hard when I was younger anyway (a story for another post), and anything that made me stand out and drew jeers from others just made me feel worse.

Here’s the crazy thing, though, and something I didn’t really realize was as strange as it was until many years later. These puppies weren’t dry.

I first noticed this one day after some small bumps had started to pop up on my areola. I was dealing with a lot of facial acne at the time, so, humorously enough, I thought that they were weird little zits. So I did what I did anytime I found a zit: I tried to pop it.

Of course, it didn’t really “pop” per se, but something was definitely coming out. A lot of something. So much that it squirted all the way from my chest to the bathroom mirror in front of me. And I’ll be honest: it felt really good. So much so, that I often did it. And they always produced.

Somewhere along this time, during a middle school physical, I was told that my breasts would “go down” after puberty. So I expected them to, wanting to distance myself from anything else that would make me a target. But they never did.

I don’t know when I realized that I had been milking myself. Was it during puberty? After? I do know that I absolutely never told anyone. I don’t know why, because I really didn’t know what was going on, not fully.

You know what? This is already a pretty long post. I’ll go ahead and stop it here, and just make my next one part 2.

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