On getting inked
Posted on August 14, 2008
Filed Under confessions of a confessaholic, goalllllls!, living in the past, nonfact |
Look at the inside of your right forearm. Put the palm of your left hand across your inner wrist, with the pinky edge lined up with the bottom of your right palm. See where your thumb’s width ends? That’s where my new tattoo will begin.
It’s going to be simple, the first initial of Isobel’s real name, in this font. It’ll be about an inch square, give or take. And it’s coming to live on me Saturday afternoon. Why there and that? That involves some way-back-in-the-old-days background.
Here goes. (Really, I suggest you just skip down to the comments and pretend that you read the following. It will save you five minutes you’re never going to get back. I’ll never know.)
The first time I planned to kill myself, I was around eight years old. A teacher at my elementary school found my suicide notes. Yes, I had multiple notes to friends, my grandparents, everyone but my father, it seems. He was informed shortly after I had a severe conversation with the school counselor (the third one I’d seen in two years, fyi) about the seriousness of scaring people like that.
Not about the seriousness of actually killing myself, keep in mind. It was about how it would scare people to read my notes, should I forget my knock-off-dollar-store trapper keeper with them in it in the computer lab.
My dad. This time wasn’t just the tirade of questions like, “why do you have to be such a little asshole?” and “why are you trying to hurt me? Why are you crying? You’re the one who’s being the asshole. I should be crying.” Asshole was a common word in our house.
It didn’t just include the usual routine called stand-in-the-corner until he fell asleep and forgot about me, so that I was terrified to come out, but knew that it was well past my bedtime because the colour bars were on the television.
Nope, not even the spankings with the stick (a 1 by 2 inches, two foot long piece of wood) got brought out in it’s usual performance. The stick came out, though, that’s for certain.
He found the stash of pills I’d slowly stolen from my grandparents over the past few months - asprins and valiums and beta blockers, oh my - and I slammed what I could grab, thinking, I don’t know. They’d work. Immediately?
I ended up bent over the bathtub, shaking, naked and with a fractured rib, with my hair covered in vomit. I had really long hair. And I couldn’t sit or breathe properly for days.
I didn’t learn my lesson.
A week before 8th grade ended was the second attempt. My boyfriend (sort of) had just ODed and died. And well. It was my fault. I’d carved his name into my arm and my father’d found it and scrubbed off the scab with steel wool and Vim (with bleach). That was to teach me not to cut. (Ha! That’s a whole ‘nuther post. Yes, you might just want to leave now. I understand.)
I went to school with a pocket of pills, figured I’d go slow and easy this time. I took a half of a pill every 15 minutes. After most of the day passed in a dull blur, I went home and took a nap. I didn’t leave a note. I woke up in the middle of the night, slammed a bunch of water and then slept again until morning. Nothing impressive there, no drama, just a hangover.
A year later.
This time, I authentically (intentionally) ODed on some authentic (pure) drugs and I was with my grandparents. My dad had just fractured my cheekbone via a kick to the face with steel toed shoes after he came home from work when I was grounded and found my boyfriend there. He kicked me out, sort of. I was staying with them, for a bit.
They had no idea that speedballs were rolling in my veins - all they knew was that I was foaming at the mouth and they thought maybe I’d ‘taken something.’ I was a morbid child, sometimes, so maybe…is what they thought.
I got my stomach pumped unnecessarily that day and GOD, you’d think I’dve learned that time. But no.
When I was just starting senior high school, my dad and I didn’t talk for a year. I’d moved out. We weren’t on speaking terms because I’d chosen a boyfriend instead of living with him and as I was packing my shit up, he told me about soup kitchens and places to live. I told him I had a place to go and I think that was a jolt to him - an insult even.
So because I didn’t talk to him, he didn’t talk to me. And then on Valentine’s day, he mailed me a card that expressed how depressed (as much as he could express anything) he was that the most important person in the world to him (me?) wanted nothing to do with him. But that I should applaud that he was trying - he’d remembered the holiday and mailed a card on time.
The guilt. It crumpled me. I took the stolen replacement razors (don’t ask why, right now, they were in my cabinet) from my dad’s old razor and I carved two thin pink lines up my arms about four inches. I followed the blue-ish purple blood vessels that are so glaringly obvious on me. I didn’t cut deeply - in fact, a second and third pass were needed to draw enough blood to forever stain a dishtowel.
I was concerned about making a mess, you see.
Then my boyfriend walked in the room because being in a trance, I’d not noticed that anyone was home, that they’d let him in, or that he’d been knocking louder and louder as concern ripped through him, before it occurred to him to turn the doorknob.
His eyes were full of tears when he picked me up and carried me to the car. He kept asking me why I was so broken. He alternated saying he couldn’t handle this (me) anymore, and telling me how in love with me he was and asking why that wasn’t enough?
I think I got few stitches. I know I got some drugs and a free stay over night in the psyche ward. That wasn’t my first psyche hold, I’ll tell you about that, at a later date, too ‘kay? (Run away, run away fast.) And I got some embarrassing, humbling scars.
Here’s the thing about being me, with my skin: it’s disruptive and sensitive as all fuck. But my scars fade and heal and become invisible. They melt, you could say. Mine, they’re gone. There’s no more boyfriend’s name carved on my elbow, there’s no branch-shaped lines up my forearms. Even the scar on my lip, from where he cut me? Gone.
Do you sense a theme? Okay.
So, when Isobel was born, it was rough. Colic, PPD, a very not functional relationship, plus pre-existing habit to FTFO…I kept expecting her to die and on one hand, I was looking forward to it.
Yes, I know. Close your mouth.
Not because I wanted her to be dead. Because I wanted to be. And all of the reading and my instincts had shown me that it was pretty inevitable that I would accidentally kill her by not tucking her crib sheets in tight enough or breastfeeding after drinking two cups of coffee in the same day. And once she died, I could be free to jump off the bridge, onto Granville Island.
See, I know I’ll make mistakes and taint her psyche emotionally and chemically in so many ways already. She’s kinda screwed right from the get-go, having me as a mom (sometimes, I think.). But I will never, ever attempt to take my life again while she’s in this world. I won’t put that on her - the guilt, fear, anger, hatred, shame…everything that comes with having to think or say the words, ‘My mom tried to kill herself.’
So, my right inner arm, in the spot where my cobweb of razoring ended, is where Isobel’s initial will remain forever - a reminder of everything right I have to live for.
Can you guess whose initial is going on the left, the more sinister side?
Probably just as moody:
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40 Responses to “On getting inked”
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Sweetie, so much I want to say. So much…
One day.
For now, wrap your arms around your body and squeeze. That is from me. From across the world.
Visit Kelley at http://www.magnetoboldtoo.com to read…Where did my boy go? Oh there he is.
oh, zj, this post leaves me speechless.
*hugs*
Visit the planet of janet at http://fromtheplanetofjanet.blogspot.com to read…Haiku Friday: the flatten me like a pancake edition
*HUG* I am at a loss for words. *HUG*
Oh, babe. You made me cry. And right now, despite the instruction on this page, I don’t have a smart ass comment. There are none. But I hope blogging this … in fits and starts and bits and pieces … will help you to heal. And I’m glad to know that you have found a reason to keep going in Isobel.
Look to the future kid. Let the past fade.
Visit spotrick at spotrick.wordpress.com to read…Wordle love
my original comment — that this post left me speechless — was eaten by wordpress, i guess.
which allows me to recover sufficiently to just say “wow.”
and hugs. many many hugs.
Visit the planet of janet at http://fromtheplanetofjanet.blogspot.com to read…Haiku Friday: the flatten me like a pancake edition
I know its hard to believe (especially for you missy) but I love and respect you even more than before. We talked about online relationships. Bogus or not. I know how you feel, as you know how I feel. But you. You are something special. Something special that this world needs. I want to squeeze your daughter so tight right now. Not for the things that her mommy has done, as sympathy, or the thoughts her mommy has had. But for being that one thing. That one thing that is ENOUGH to help her mommy see her worth in this fucked up world we live in. That little girl is your angel disguised. She is your knight.
Your failed attempts at removing yourself from this world are a blessing to ALL of us. One day we will all see. I hope to be in the front fucking row, holding your purse for you, knowing you gotta come see me in the end. Cuz I gots your purse biatch! Pow!
(you are so gonna tell me that you dont carry a purse huh? Just to fucking spite me.)
Visit Miss at http://ruraandmiss.wordpress.com to read…Awake
Isnt the love for your child amazing? *squeezies and love*
Visit GoaldeeBug to read…Happy Fucking Birthday!
Dude…
Respect.
Visit Xbox4NappyRash to read…The seventh sense
I keep seeing your name everywhere I go. It seems we read the same people. I read the comments you leave for other people. Somehow, I never got the sense of you, from those comments. But I have a sense of you now. If you don’t mind, Ill be back. Every day. Every. single. day.
Visit lceel to read…Friday Haiku
All I can say here is we have so much more in common than you know.
That little girl is so lucky to have such a strong mother.
Visit Hockeyman to read…Daddy Date Night - 08.14.2008
I was going to comment, but I’ll just email you back instead.
Visit Maria to read…I’m Boycotting Blogging.
awww. tear.
doen’t hurt she has a good looking initial too.
Visit red food colouring to read…Hi, its 8:27 and i’ve been at work for half an hour already.
I am going to do what Maria did. hugs.
Visit Kim to read…Doctor office visits are not good for your health or wrinkles
i like the font… although for the letter, i prefer the lower case version.
then again, i never use capital letters.
tattoos are some of the best therapy imaginable. far more effective for me than any jackass in a lab coat i ever had to talk to.
Your honesty is inspiring. Your story gives hope. Thanks for sharing.
Visit Fear and Parenting in Las Vegas to read…Friday Funnies: My man gets his groove on
You are the most amazing woman… and probably one of the most rational people I have ever come across. I do not have the words to tell you how heartbreaking your early life is to hear… I can’t imagine wbat it was like to live through.
Visit Tara R. to read…Life’s little mysteries…
You know you’re getting it right ABOVE where all the energy leaves your body, meaning it will have to pass OVER the letter before it leaves? That’s good, yo. Very very good.
Visit Mr Lady to read…Of All My Demon Spirits, I Need You The Most
This is such an amazingly naked and potent post and quite an introduction for me to your blog.
I love the idea of her initial at the end of the branch scar from your suicide attempt. The symbolism of her ending your attempts is strikingly powerful. Beautiful.
I think your tattoo idea is fabulous. That, and I love you. And, I second was Miss says. And, I love you. Okay?
Wow! Such a hard life and yet you have the sense NOT to pass on this crap to your kid. Good for you! Every step forward puts you one step further away from the things that hurt you. Keep steppin’ Zoeyjane.
This was by far, the best post I’ve seen from you and obviously you touched many lives already with these words. I envy how you cut straight through the bullshit in your writing and everything you do.
Iso is SO lucky to have a mom like you and I’m SO lucky to have a friend like you and damn girl, I don’t know where I’d be without you, but you know that. You’re a fighter and now I know why. Know that I LOVE YOU ((HUGS))
and thank you for the strength you give me. I will forever be thankful.
PS. I’m so looking forward to seeing it on Sunday
I don’t want to make your experiences sound insignificant…but I’ve done that, too. “They” tried to commit me in college, and I considered it, but in the end I said no. I had a scar on my right wrist for a while. But it’s faded. As has the hurt and unbearable pain. I hope it has for you, too. I also have a baby to remind me that life really is worth living. And it is. If only to see her smile.
Visit K8spade to read…My Friday Night. Sad, Huh?
This is my first time here and I just wanted to say I’m glad you wrote this post. Thank you.
((love))
I’m horrible at putting into words what I’m thinking, so I’m just sending love.
And I want to see a picture when it’s done.
My favorite line: I was concerned about making a mess, you see.
It says SO much about the pain and hurt and responsibility you (we) felt as a child.
Kisses to you and your lovely baby. Those who don’t learn from the past are condemned to repeat it, or some shit like that.
The tat is gonna be off tha hook!
Visit VDog to read…Unveiling My Neuroses (aka, The Cracker In Me)
Enjoy your ink. I’m thinking of getting one (my fourth) in the same area but on the left arm. So I want to know how much it hurts!
I’m so sorry for all that you went through in life. I am so glad that you now know you won’t make any more attempts. I know people whose mothers not only attempted but did commit suicide. To say it’s devastating is an understatement. It destroys.
And as you said, you have so much to live for now.
My kids have kept me alive during the worst times of my life as well.
Visit dysfunctional mom to read…Thankful Thursday
When I was away at college, my baby brother called to tell me he had slit his wrists. He was bleeding, weak, scared, alone. I was 8 hours away. I could not get to him. I could not make it right. I was terrified for him, for me, for us. He survived, thankfully.
When I was reading this, I felt the same sense of helplessness I felt that night. I wanted to fix him. I want to fix your past for you, erase it. But, I can’t do that. And, I don’t have to. Your past has defined you, as much as it has defined my baby brother.
You have survived! You are a survivor!
I love the symbol of the tattoo above the scar. It is turning something painful into something beautiful. It is about rebirth. It is a testament to your strength.
I have to stop now because I need to go call my brother and tell him I love him. Nite!
Visit conversemomma to read…Am I Racist?
I was sent here from Vdog. Your strength, courage and love are remarkable. Wishing you all the best! xoxo, Alli
Visit Alli {Mrs. Fussypants} to read…Fight the Frump- Clothing Atrocities
I wanted to comment much, much sooner. Even read bits in my reader. But I knew this was too important, too deep, too personal, too much to casually glance at and expect to leave a fitting comment. All that said, I had time, finally, to read through from first word to last, and I have no fitting comment other than WOW. Really. Wow. And hugs to one tough bitch (I mean that in the most complimentary way).
Visit Maggie’s Mind to read…Weekly Winners Sunday 8/17/08
Like others, I am speechless on your strength and courage. And as mentioned above….
Respect.
*hugs*
Visit Sandy (Momisodes) to read…Fresh New World
I envied you for a small moment, that your scars melt into your skin. But just that moment, I couldn’t envy the other stuff.
I find myself tracing the scars on my upper arm and I can’t remember what they say. Was it bitch, or slut, or hate? I can’t remember. I guess that is good. It is past. I wish I had a blank canvas to work from.
Thank you for writing this down in such a lovely way and sharing your past. I know it means a lot to me and to a lot of other people.
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Mad respect to you!
Here via VDog.
Very powerful post.
Visit Al_Pal to read…Written & Print-Screen’d last night
Heavy. Nothing I can really add except, I’m glad you made out to write about it.
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Wow. Honey. Wow.
You’ve touched people. You’ve touched me.
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That is a hella good idea. Plus, if you’ve tried to kill yourself that many times, without success. then in my opinion it means you’re just meant to stick around for a long time!
Visit Nicki to read…I’m Fit… to be Tied! Hahahaha that made no sense.
I can’t put all I want to say in this measley little comment. I’ll email you. But for now, BIG HUGS.
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o.m.g.
my heart aches for you… and yet i am so proud of you!
i have nought to say but that.
funny enough… i want my knucklehead’s first initial tattooed in the same place- just a different font.
Visit angel to read…Taking A Leaf…
Wow. You’re so brave to share this with the world. Thank you.
Visit Sarcasta-Mom to read…The Rafting Trip
I’ve just now found this post. I don’t know how or why I missed it. But you’ve left me here, a little different, after reading this. It was powerful. It was heavy. Possibly one of the best things I’ve ever, ever read. I found myself thinking of my own scars: the 2 long, deep scars on my left inner arm…the 2 on my right, and the small, pitiful ones on my wrist-never meant to do me in, just send a message…the scars on my upper thighs, the big, faded-to-white X’s covering my stomach…the one lonely 2 inch on my upper left arm that I don’t even remember putting there (but know it was intentional)…and I’ve been trying to come to terms with my own for a few years now, but haven’t been able to. I’m more mad at myself than anything else. But being angry was the way they got there in the first place, and I can’t let myself dwell there too long. I just can’t.
But you’ve changed my view. Just slightly. But dramatically. After the last time I cut {I don’t even remember when that was, but maybe about 3, 4, 5 years now?} I vowed never to do it again. It wasn’t the therapy that did it. Hell, the therapy made me feel even worse most of the time. But it was something. Something that shifted inside me…I knew I wanted to be around for my kids. The ones I’d have someday. I still hold that thought whenever I’m tempted to revert to old patterns (not just cutting, but other things), and it keeps me on track. I’m not perfect. Never, ever will be. But I’m learning how to stick around. For the little ones I’ll have the honor to hold someday in my arms and call mine.
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