Letter To My Chest

Chest, you have brought me a lot of pain.
Probably more pain than pleasure.
Everytime I think about you I get nauseous.
I feel weighted. Figuratively and physically by you.
Sometimes I wish I could keep you. But I need you gone too bad.
You have helped me explore myself, and my body.
You've made me feel empowered, and you've made me feel helpless and weakness and ugly.
You've made me feel hot, and you've made me feel like I'm going to gag.

Everytime I put on a binder, I am greeted with a wave of euphoria for a flat chest.
I feel it. The weight is lifted. If only for a second before I notice how the binder squeezes my chest inside itself and tightens if I move my arms or back.
My breath is not flexible, it is held in place.

I have dreams about the euphoria of how my body will look after top surgery.
Yes I am scared of the whole medical process. I am mortally scared of death. As humans typically are. Sometimes irrationally, even though my surgeon has very many successful surgeries under her belt.
I have to remember this. That this was the best choice for me. For my chest.
I will be happier. It will feel good. Yes there will be adjusting. Just like with literally everything else that changes in my life.
But I have endured harder changes.
And none of those were for the conclusion of my own well being.
So why am I so…