Feedback Loop (might take down this pic later 😬... Very revealing)

So… I had a doctor’s appointment recently.
Just a follow-up. Just routine. Just another in a long list of visits where I try to explain something that should sound impossible, but isn’t.

We talked about my chest. Obviously.

We talked about the weight I’ve gained — not overall, just there. My back hasn’t thickened, my thighs haven’t grown. It’s all gone forward. And it’s gone fast.

She looked at my chart. Looked at me. Then very gently said:
“You’re carrying the kind of weight some people only ever experience through surgical implants.”
And the worst part is… I know she meant that to comfort me. Like, see? You’re not crazy. This is objectively a lot.
But it didn’t comfort me.
Because implants stop growing. Mine don’t.

We scheduled a mammogram — the real kind this time, not just the gentle ultrasound scanning. They want a better idea of the internal makeup. How much of it is fat, how much of it is gland.

And the truth is: the glandular part is what's concerning.

Because here's the thing I didn’t fully understand until this appointment:
The more gland tissue I grow, the more receptors I have.
The more receptors I have, the more sensitive my breasts become to hormones.
And the more sensitive they become… the faster they grow.

It’s a feedback loop.
My breasts are building themselves into a bigger version of themselves.
Self-feeding. Self-responding.
The bigger they get, the more likely they are to keep going.

It’s like… they’re evolving toward expansion.

I sat there, arms crossed tightly in the waiting room afterward, feeling their weight spill down my ribs and across my lap. Knowing that every new inch, every soft swell, every bulge I try to compress away is part of this chain reaction. And the scariest part? It’s not random.
It’s structured.
It’s biology following instructions I didn’t write.

She said they’ll probably recommend some blood work next, maybe even genetic testing. But honestly? That feels like trying to study a wildfire by measuring the temperature of the smoke.

I’m living inside the fire.

Anyway — I’ll let you know what the scan shows. I don’t expect a miracle, but I guess I want to understand what percentage of me is just fat… and what percentage is a machine that keeps telling itself to grow.

Love you all for sticking around through this weird, hormonal fairy tale I’m trapped in.
More soon.

—Plushy