Breast Implant Illness

Breast Implant Illness

One of my blogs ended up in The Sun… (You can read the article here) so I thought I’d talk about it in my own words!!!

I originally shared this a few months ago, when the whole “10-year challenge” thing was trending.

Every picture from 10 years ago, I have enormous, silicone tits. I know that I’ve touched on the fact that I had my breast implants removed last year, so I thought that this would be as good a time as any to tell my breast story. A tittibiography, if you will.

I’d always had fairly decent natural tits. A rendezvous with Eminem in Las Vegas, when I was 19, had made the tabloids, and I got offered a substantial amount of “glamour” work off the back of the story. From motor shows to page 3, to lap-dancing at String fellows in London & Paris, my natural D cups brought me such a steady income from the ages of 19 – 23, that I nicknamed them the “moneymakers”

Fast forward to age 28 where breastfeeding Seb had left me with one B and one D cup, and I decided to get a breast enlargement.

Seb was 4, I couldn’t see myself having any more children, and so I booked in with Transform in Manchester, September 2008, and had a 350cc silicone implant put into my right breast and a 420cc silicone implant into my left.

I had been crushingly insecure about how uneven my chest had been, and was thrilled with my new twins.

They now entered a room 3 minutes before I did. I could go braless anytime I wanted. A simple vest and jeans became my staple outfit. If I wore red, I looked like I ought to have been running in slow motion towards a drowning hunk. You get the idea. All in all, I decided that they were a worthwhile investment.

I never gave them much more thought, other than enjoying my ultra cleavage, until 9 years later when I fell pregnant with Lola. The pregnancy was wretched. Hyperemesis gravadium, hospitalised numerous times for drips, it was fucking dire. But our breastfeeding journey made 42 weeks of vomiting into a bucket while simultaneously pissing myself, look like an episode of Winnie the fucking pooh.

Lola couldn’t latch, so we had her tongue tie snipped twice but it made little difference. It was as though my milk made her sick so I cut out everything. Diary, wheat, sugar, but again, no difference.

Kev made a light-hearted quip that wasn’t it ironic that growing Lola had made me ill for 42 weeks and now my breasts seemed to be doing the same to her. Making her ill.

He had meant it as a throwaway comment but it penetrated my brain. I began replaying it. Were my breasts making my baby sick? A quick Internet search put the fear of god into me…as only a good Google search involving the health of your child can. I kept stumbling across articles about silicone being found in breast milk and seeing the words “breast Implant Illness” over and over again.

I flew to the GP like a woman possessed. Screaming at her that I was poisoning my baby. She first insisted that we talk about my obvious postnatal anxiety (good call doc) and then went on to examine me. Upon examining my tits, she attempted to reassure me that although 9 years old, they definitely weren’t ruptured. I still looked like I was smuggling Right Said Fred where ever I went, so I was inclined to agree with her. The twins still looked fucking fabulous as far as I could tell. That wasn’t the issue though.

I’m careful about what products I use on my face because of what can permeate through the skin for gods sake. I don’t use products containing SLS’s or parabens, but ill put silicone in my chest cavity? I douse my body with magnesium sprays most days because I know that transdermally is one of the most effective ways to absorb minerals. Where were the tests to show that these 9-year-old bags of silicone couldn’t leak trace amounts of synthetic chemical shite into my milk ducts? These thoughts began consuming my every waking hour. I had wanted my baby girl to self wean off breastfeeding. I had so desperately wanted and ached to be able to nourish her from my body until she naturally weaned herself from me. Making the decision to stop breastfeeding her, because of a decision I had made 9 years previously, that was based on nothing more than vanity, was enough to push the depression into mega drive.

I insisted on going for a scan, which confirmed that my left implant was ruptured and that I had silicone in my lymph nodes and went on to have a full enbloc (which is the removal of the implant and the surrounding capsule that your body forms around it).

Serendipitously, I had my explant surgery 10 years to the week that I had my implants put in, September 2018.

Recovery has been shit. Partly because I was engulfed in postnatal depression while I was experiencing it, partly because my breasts now look like Christmas balloons that you find behind the back of the sofa in May, and partly because this was all self-inflicted.

Which left me asking why? Why on earth did I do this to myself? For a pair of decent tits? Who defines what decent tits are? Because we have Kardashians flaunting their achingly symmetrical, perk, full tits on every Instagram feed? Because every advert, every social media post, every music video, flaunts a perfectly perfect cleavage?

My 28-year-old tits were perfect!! They’d nourished a beautiful baby boy with their milk. They might not have been symmetrical anymore, but why oh why did I care?

Somewhere along the line, I’d subconsciously been convinced that major surgery at 28 years old, for no other reason than to obtain a more attractive cleavage, was a good idea.

No one told me I’d end up a 38-year-old anxiety-riddled mother of 3 with shriveled tits

I was given breasts to feed my children. That’s why I have them. They’re mammary glands for fuck sake. But I sexualised mine. I bowed to society’s sexualisation of breasts and I reveled in the compliments that they would receive. “Nice tits” they’d lasciviously smirk, and Id revel in it!! Now, do you know what the appropriate response to “nice tits” should have been? Before implants, I should have responded,
“thanks. DNA, genetics, and youth have given me symmetrical, voluptuous, mammary glands” and post-implant, the response ought to have been, “Thanks. I had 4k and a good surgeon” Instead I’d inwardly gloat that I was getting such a mindless fucking “compliment” I enjoyed being objectified. Which has been a difficult emotional journey to navigate.

Choosing to get breast implants has cost me greatly. They cost me the ability to nourish my baby from my own body. Which contributed enormously to my crippling postnatal depression. They cost me 2 major surgeries under general anaesthetic. They cost me thousands of pounds. They gave me many, many symptoms of breast Implant Illness (If you reading this and have breast implants and want to find out more about Breast Implant Illness, I’d recommend joining this group) which I’m still suffering from.

So here are my 10yr apart pictures. Full face of makeup, 1 baby, and silicone breasts on the left. Makeup free, 3 babies, and no silicone on the right.

My tits now look like empty Tesco carrier bags floating in Blackpool sea. But I couldn’t care less. Because my heart is full of love and gratitude for my amazing fucking body that grew 3 magnificent children. Even if that body didn’t get to feed them the way I wanted it to because of my misinformed choices based on vanity and insecurity.

Higher Power

Higher Power

I have felt deeply in touch with a higher power over the last few years and its incredibly comforting.

But there’s something happening on social media where its almost like you have to be part of a clique to be spiritual.

A clique where if you’re not meditating regularly, doing yoga daily, and taking yourself off on retreats then you’re not doing it right.

Let me tell you something. I meditate and do yoga when I can. I practice and swear by the Wim Hoff Method. I’ve had some experiences where I have transcended astral planes and I’ve had somewhere it’s been all I could do to just focus on my breath.

But do you know the most spiritual experience I had in the last year? I was on the beach in Crete with my daughters. The sun was beaming down on us, the waves were crashing on the shore and my beautiful girls were running around dancing in and out of the waves.

In that moment I saw and felt God. The Goddess. Gaia. Call it whatever you like. Pure Universal Energy in all its glory.

I felt it in the sunshine. I saw it in my children. I felt it from the sea. I felt it in me and saw it in every beautiful soul on that beach and it was bliss.

And it wasn’t yoga or meditating, or breathwork… It was just an overwhelming feeling of immense gratitude and pure love.

And that’s what spirituality is to me. And that’s what I need to remind myself of.

It doesn’t have to be an online clique of bendy girls in Bali drinking fresh from the coconut (may or may not be being said with a hint of jealousy 😬)….

……. It can be just taking a moment to feel truly, truly grateful 🙏❤️

Triggered on Good Morning Britain

Triggered on Good Morning Britain

I went on Good Morning Britain last to debate whether or not strippers could be feminists and the whole experience has triggered me horribly.

Since I began doing soul work on myself the last few years, I have realised just how many of my life experiences that I have buried within my subconscious. I wrote recently of a childhood sexual assault memory that resurfaced while I was pregnant with Lola.
When I say that these experiences were buried, I was aware that they had happened. I could recount them robotically…. as though describing a scene in a film…. But there was a detachment there. I wasn’t processing the enormity of the situation or feeling the emotions of it. It was there in my head….. but at the same time, it wasn’t. I know… Confused much?
I didn’t know what I was going to say before I appeared on GMB. Whenever I’ve appeared in the past to talk about home educating, vaccinating, teenage sleep patterns etc… I have spent the night before in the hotel room reading relevant studies and desperately trying to commit statistics to memory.
I didn’t do any of that this time. As anyone who watches my Insta stories knows, I spent the night before smoking weed and watching gogglebox. I didn’t need to research this as far as I was concerned. The debate was about lapdancers, and I was the only one in that studio who had ever worked as one. I didn’t need to research anything…. I was speaking from a place of experience.
Given that I didn’t know what I was going to say, I was as surprised as anyone else when I began to recount an experience I’d had as a young lapdancer where I was taken from the very elite club in Paris that I was working in.. to a party in a castle. A 3-day party where there was enough cocaine to knock out Charlie Sheen and the girls where passed around like a charcuterie board at a wine tasting.
I knew this had happened….and yet until I blurted it out to Piers Morgan on live breakfast television I hadn’t really “remembered” it.
And remember it has triggered me… Horribly.
Bumping into Jim Davidson in the green room who I had danced for at 19 probably didn’t help either.
I’m learning to be grateful for these triggers as and when they are happening. They are showing me the holes that I need to address and work through….. And they’re appearing at a time in my life where I am equipped to deal with them.
It’s called soul work for a reason….. It really is fucking work.
Let’s Talk Calpol

Let’s Talk Calpol

I don’t use calpol when my children have fevers. When I first became a mum 14 years ago to Sebastian, I used it all the time. If he had a fever, I would alternate religiously between calpol and nurofen. I know now that I was doing him a disservice. Pubmed studies show that artificially suppressing a fever when the body is trying to fight a virus can lead to meningitis and febrile convulsions. Seb actually suffered a few febrile convulsions as a child following me trying to lower his temperature.
A fever is your body fighting. Its raising its core temperature to fight a virus. Dr Suzanne Humphries quotes that “trying to artificially supress a fever when ill, is like shooting your guard dog when someone is trying to break in”.
The only time you need to lower the body’s temperature artificially, is in the case of sun stroke or chemical poisoning.
I do try to boost my children’s immune systems when they are ill with things like silver, Young Living Essential oils, homeopathy, elderberry syrup, liposomal vitamin C, Epsom salt baths, cannabis oil, probiotics etc but would only seek out pharmaceutical antibiotics in the event of a confirmed bacterial infection.
Although I do always ring Helios homeopathic pharmacy and ask them for a remedy match.
I have noticed that when comparing how my daughters deal with illnesses when I don’t interfere with a fever and support their bodies natural defences, compared with how my son dealt with illnesses when I was dosing him up on regular antipyretics and antibiotics, that the difference is astonishingly apparent.
The girls follow a pattern. They run a temperature for around 48/72hrs, sleep a lot and go off their food. Then wake up better and seem to have gone through a developmental leap almost. This is in comparison to Seb, who would struggle for 10 days to 2 weeks with an illness while I was suppressing his fever. I would always insist on antibiotics without even swabbing for a bacterial infection. I would regularly give calpol and nurofen. In contrast to his sisters, every “cold” would always develop into something more. He would constantly battle ear infections, throat infections etc
And so that’s why I no longer use calpol to try and supress fevers in my children!! Because I saw first hand it hindering my son and because I learned of the dangers of artificially suppressing fevers after reading some studies.
I’m no doctor, just sharing the observations and research I’ve done for my own family… that I got from peer reviewed articles on pub med and books by leading paediatricians… not Internet memes before the trolls start 😊❤️