I don’t wear a bra. Ever.
I think I might have autism.
Bear with me because I think these two things are related. Tenuously, maybe, but related, nonetheless.
I also think I have OCD traits. This, too, is related.
Let’s start with the bra thing. I hate clothing in general. It all feels so restrictive and I am allergic to manydifferent kinds of fabrics. Hell, I’m allergic to so many things in general. Let’s go over them, shall we?
Almost every fucking flower/weed under the sun. So many of the manmade scents–almost all of them, too. The last time I had the allergy test where they infect you, I mean inject you with all the different allergens in your thigh, like thirty diffreent allergens, my entire thigh blew the fuck up. It became one giant boil, basically.
I also didn’t know when I used to get allergy shots as a kid that they were injecting me with poison. It was so utterly miserable. My arm would swell up every time, and I would be hot and miserable. And, again, I had no idea what was happening. If someone had actually told me why they were poisoning me, I would have been able to deal with it better.
And did it work? No. I still have allergies. I used to envy my brother for not getting the shots. I found out a few years ago it was because his allergies were too far gone for the shots to be considered effective. Ironically, his allergies are pretty much gone now while mine are just worse.
I’m allergic to mosquito bites. To gluten. To lactose. So many allergies (none life-threatening) to so many things.
Let’s get back to bras. I hate them. I have always hated them. I had a traumatic fitting incidence that left me in tears. It also made me hate my body even more than I did. I found that fitters telling women* to wear really fucking tight bras that crushed your ribs was common, which was what I went through. I wore 38 D. They told me I should wear 34 DD. It hurt like fuck. When I said I ended up in tears, I meant it literally. And I will never, ever, EVER allow a bra fitter near me again. Even if I were to go back towearing a bra. Which I won’t.
Ranodm fact: There was a study that showed people who did not wear bras had perkier boobs than those who did, but that was not conclusive. On the other side, there is no conclusive evidence that wearing a bra keeps the boobs perkier, too. And because there is so much push for women to wear them, I always feel compelled to stand up for the other side.
Even if boobs sag, so the fuck what? If there is no medical problem with it, then who the uck cares? Also, if there is no pain. Look. If someone wants to wear a bra, I am most emphatically not going to stop them or lecture them about how they should free the boobs. I would just appreciate the same courtesy in return. But the fear that they project as they frantically defend the bra is amazing. And tiring. Just chill the fuck out, ok?
I am not trying to take your bra away. I really am not. I do not give a shit about your bra. I only care about mine. Or rather, my boobs. They hate bras. They hate bras a lot. Both regular bras and sports bras. The latter were better than the former (especially underwire bras. THE WORST). I had already started siphoning off bra-wearing before the pandemic. Once the pandemic hit, no more bras for me!
And what a relief. I have never felt better. My boobs have never been happier.
Now. Autism. I have been reading up on it and having conversations. Watching Hannah Gadsby’s specials have really gotten me thinking. She said in her last one that (in which she dedicated a sizeable chunk of it to finding out she was autistic) being autistic was like being the only sober person in a group full of drunks. I really resonated with that because I have often been the sober person in a group of drunks, and I hate that. But I never made the connection to that being hot I felt about being in groups in general.
Oh. I was going to tie in not wearing a bra to autism. Tangentially. Apparently, having sensory issues i a symptom of autism. That’s why I’m tying the two together.
Why am i rambling on about this? Because I can and because I’m focused on it right now. I am fascinated with the idea that I am autistic and just never knew it. It makes things make so much sense. The fact that I could mask it so well because I had done it from such a young age and was pushed to mask it by my mother–although that wasn’t her intent.
What do I mean by that? I mean she likely had no idea that I was autistic. She knew my brother was, even if she didn’t know the name for it. She tried to help him with it, albeit, she did not do enough. But I did not present in the way he did, i.e., the more classic symptoms such as not liking to be touched, self-soothing behaviors, not being able to look someone in the eye, etc.
I, on the other hand, was quite, dreamy, and always had my nose in the book. I was the good girl becasue I had to be. And I was empathetic because I was forced to be. In other words, I learned how to mask at a very young age. but when I’m tired, the mask slips. then I say things that I normally keep to myself, and I don’t always have the spoons to make it better. I try, but I can’t always cover for the mistakes I make.
And, it’s tiring. It’s so fucking tiring that it’s a lot easier just to be by myself–with my cat. I am obsessive about things that I’m interested in, and I can’t make myself be interested in things I had no interest in. I can barely make myself appear interested in things I had NO interest in.
For example. I don’t like movies. I just don’t. I tried. I really have. I’ve done screeds about how I’ve tried to like movies. And how I’ve been dumped because of my weird view on movies. I’m tired, though, so I’m ending this for now.
*How I identified at the time.