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A Preface

If you are under 18, please talk with a trusted adult before proceeding. This series addresses some adult topics with adult language. Thank you.

This is Part 3 of The Boob Chronicles. You may want to start with Part 1 and Part 2.

Monday, May 20: Well, that sucked.

Last week, I felt like I’d really turned a corner. I left the house every day from Tuesday onward. In non-pajamas. I even put on makeup and drove twice, albeit with my spiffy little boob pillow giving me a small buffer from the seatbelt. All in all, I was feeling pretty damn good about myself. Julia came home Wednesday, having spent the last two weeks at Marty’s. And despite still needing a lot of rest and help from my tribe, I definitely made some great strides. And then I took a shower.

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Here I am. Thinking I’m doing so great.

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A Preface

If you are under 18, please talk with a trusted adult before proceeding. This series addresses some adult topics with adult language. Thank you.

Saturday, May 11, 2019

I woke up on the loveseat this morning. It’s one of my new favorite spots to sleep, along with the couch and a power recliner my dear friend loaned me in preparation for Boob-ma-geddon. Each spot works for keeping me in its own little subset of intermittently comfortable positions, depending on what hurts most and least at the moment. Maybe that sounds like I’m hosting a little nocturnal pity party in my family room, but honestly, it’s more like a constantly evolving game of Nap-Themed Human Tetris. Each spot works with the right positioning. All I have to do is pair the right position with the right location, and as those locations are all in a 300-square-foot space, I’d say I’m pretty much winning at day-sleeping and general post-op laziness right now.

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The first time I intentionally told a complete and total lie, I was four. My sister and I were playing in our brown-shag-carpeted family room in upstate New York, and we decided it would be a really, really good idea to play with the broom, which probably wasn’t the worst idea except that we were playing right near our mom’s Tiffany-style glass lampshade. Long story short, the incident ended with my mom running into the room and scanning the scene: broken lamp, shattered glass in the shag, a clammed up six-year-old, and one petrified four-year-old holding a broom twice her height behind her back. No blood at least, but still, not exactly what a mom wants to see.

To my mom’s credit, when we pointed our fingers at one another, claimed complete innocence, and disavowed any knowledge of either the lamp (which we’d just blamed one another for breaking) or the broom (which I was still holding), she didn’t laugh or scream, both of which would have been appropriate, even simultaneously. No, my mom was quiet at that moment, and that scared the daylights out of me. We knew that she knew. And she knew that we knew. And that guilt was enough to keep me from lying again for a long, long time.

These days, though, I seem to lie a lot, mostly by omission, and primarily because most people don’t really want to hear the honest answers to their daily questions. Autism doesn’t make for polite conversation. Plus, some days I’m so seriously jealous of these women and their normal lives and typical kids that I kind of hate them a little for complaining about the things I would give my left arm for.

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