A reflection
I smile at the man who’s standing behind my husband in the checkout line, catching the back end of his eyes glazed over at my leg. Placing my item on the counter, the woman at the hardware store cashier stand bends over to look at the tattooed band of black across my left ankle and winces. She points to the freshly scabbed tattoo on her arm and explains that if that hurt like hell, she can’t imagine how mine would have felt. I smile and tell her that numbing cream is a miracle thing.
These glances, the stares, the quick flick of the eyes downward and the leering assessment of my tattoos are an inevitable, all too frequent consequence of my heavily tattooed body. I decided early on that I would meet everyone’s eyes with a smile instead of a sneer or shaking my head. Humans are a curious sort. It’s only natural.
I’ve received the comments a woman tends to get ranging from inquisitive “Is there a reason for all of them?”, “Do you like them all?” to the doubtful “Did you ever plan on getting that many?”, as if getting a tattoo was as self indulgent as eating a whole bag of candy. And the most painful to hear: “Why would you do that to yourself?”
I could tell them my reasons, but they don’t really want to know about the years of family trauma that I inherited. The self harm. The narcissistic, codependent relationships. The alcohol abuse. I could lie and say I like them all- statement often unappreciated but those that don’t know how to make a decision and then live with it. I have said no, I didn’t plan on this many, but I did plan all of them and welcomed them onto my skin when the time was right. And as to why would I do this to myself?
Well, for the same reason anyone lashes out when they feel pain. For the same reason anyone hurts another person for doing them wrong. For all the moments I have fought against the demons in my head and won, there is a tattoo on my skin representing the victory. For all the mental war I have lost, those tattoos are there too, sometimes under layers of black.
Eventually along the way of learning how to be a person, I stopped unleashing my emotions like a weapon. On myself. On those who hurt me. On those who tried to help and fail.
And those moments of my journey are punctuated by these tattoos on my skin. The ones that cover scars, the ones that cover other people’s tattoos, and the ones that cover bare skin. They remind me that even though the ink is permanent, this body is not. This life will join the dirt in the ground one day as my soul moves to the next destination. My children may not inherit riches but they will receive my stories, etched on my skin like guidebook.
I know all too well there is no way to judge a book by its cover, especially when the chapters of human life are so complex and expansive. And God-willing, I will leave no scars on those who I meet, because instead of choosing to throw the first punch, I will choose to forgive. Instead of choosing to hate and self hate, I will process the pain of existing with a needle and ink. Instead of downing a bottle, I’ll take to the countryside. Instead of meeting curious gazes with scowls, I will graciously smile,
because in the grand scheme of things, nothing else matters except for loving others-
not even the skin on my back.
Maranatha,
Kassandra
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