For as long as I could remember, I wanted a tattoo. I had always loved the idea of the dark ink standing out from my light skin. At first, I felt adamant about getting a chubby star outline on my inner wrist but I never had the courage to follow through. It's funny to think of how hard I tried to convince my mother that it was just a tattoo and that it wasn't a big deal.
I played with the idea for many years, randomly bringing up the idea that I was getting closer to making up my mind to ink myself, and even though I hadn't heard any negative feedback from my mother, I stayed unmarked. I guess I was just too scared to voluntarily allow someone to dig into my skin.
I went through a major decline in 2015 which was brought on by severe anxiety. I literally couldn't stop shaking. I had dealt with some uncomfortable situations and tried to figure out better ways to steady my nerves. Journaling kept me busy for a while, but I still had a hard time figuring out what I really needed.
On one specific August afternoon, a friend had picked me up to "hang out." We had made it to a tattoo shop; she had wanted one, but I was still unsure. I exhaled sharply while heat rushed against every inch of my insides. When she asked if I would finally get mine, I quickly thought, What would my mom think?
My friend went first. I watched her flinch slightly at the gnawing needle that attacked her ankle. I had smoothed the goosebumps on my arms and wished I could've been tattooed already. I honestly just wanted to know what the pain was like.
The man looked up at me after a few minutes, and asked calmly, "Are you ready?"
Am I ready? Will I ever be ready?
I sat in the chair, twirling myself from left to right while he set up the sterile equipment. It was summertime and I wore a tank-top with leggings. Somehow, my skin grew cold. The icy goosebumps fought against my rapidly moving hands when I had finally come to the realization: this is it!
"I'm going to show you, it's not that bad," my tattoo artist pulled closer to my chair.
I sat waiting for the needle to eventually tap my scared wrist. The sharp tingle felt like getting your hair pulled; the short yank of a strand.
"How was that?"
"You're kidding me right?" I couldn't believe how good it felt.
"That's it," he laughed at me and went back to work.
I had allowed him to continue dragging that numbing machine up and down my wrist while I held onto the pain. I wanted to close my eyes--somewhat afraid of watching my skin become vandalized, but my intriguing curiosity kept them glued on the prickling flesh.
My nerves rode the waves of the intense vibrations as I watched how the tip of the needle rhythmically caressed my fresh skin. Suddenly, my breathing slowed to the humming of the device.
It was over.
I was mad. I wanted to feel more. I wanted to spend more time with the sharp point dragging across my arm.
For the first time in a while, I had felt like my nerves were in check.
Whether it was the pleasure of the pain or the needle had finally numbed my feelings, it was an experience well worth the wait.
When he had applied the shiny goo onto my arm, the heightened sensations had evaporated and I was left with a mark; a permanent piece of ink that sat at the end of my wrist. In just two minutes I had gained control of my life again and I couldn’t stop staring at my arm. It was nothing really tomost people, but for me it was a symbol worthy of an explanation. My life had been flipped around, thrown, poked and pieced back together and throughout it all, I survived. I never gave up on myself, or on love--considering my history with that four letter word.
A tiny heart was applied to my inner arm so that I will always remember that love starts with me.
