Walking into the playground, a dozen sets of eyes dart from my face to my chest.
‘ET!’ a couple of the lads yelled at me.
They weren’t referring to the little alien on a bicycle.
For me, ET stood for something else.
Enormous tits. Not kind. But, to be fair, they weren’t wrong.
I’d started developing early – and by 15, I was wearing a 36DD bra.
I was a size 16, too. Bigger and bustier than all the girls in my class.
Always piled my plate high, had seconds.
Having massive breasts meant buying unflattering clothes.
A neckline too low made it look like I was trying to get attention.
Really, it was the opposite – I was fed up with the stares!
Though I knew losing weight could help, years passed and I could never find the motivation.
When my twins Isla and Chloe were born in March 2011, I was a size 18-20.
And, busy with my babies, food became about convenience.
Pre-packed sandwiches and crisps for lunch.
Cheesy pasta or ready meals for dinner.
After the girls, my boobs grew even more, to a 42G.
‘Sorry, we don’t stock G-cups,’ the sales assistants told me sympathetically time and again.
Seeing my smaller-busted friends in strappy tops, I burned with envy.
Desperate to hide away, I layered up in jumpers and baggy trousers, and even started to cover my arms with tattoos.
In May 2016, determined to lose my pregnancy weight, I cut out carbs, tried meal-replacement shakes.
But I was hungry and miserable, and soon was back to binging.
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January 30, 2020