Thursday, April 5, 2012
A Tatttoo With a Side Order of Self-Confidence
"‘I tried to kill myself, then I went in to a mental hospital, then my therapist asked me when I was going to take control of my own life, and I realised at that exact moment that it was about time I at least tried to free myself from the chains I have, I suppose kept myself under. I want to live my own life, but I never have. I have always asked others ‘Am I ok?’ without actually asking them? You know? Like if they are in a mood then I automatically assume I have done something wrong, and if people feel bad then I have to make them feel better or it could be me that has upset them and then they may not like me anymore. Like they may confirm to me, by not liking me, that I actually don’t like myself. I have always been so afraid, but I couldn’t tell you exactly what of. You know?’"
I love reading Lexy's blog because she has this honest, raw, open, gut-wrenching way of telling it like it is. Post-partum depression in all of its ugliness. Suicide in all of its painfulness and soul sucking despair. And that glimmer of hope that maybe things can and will get better.
Lexy wrote this when she was getting a tattoo and explaining why to the tattoo artist and he, of course, thought she was completely bonkers. But how many of us can relate to the words she wrote?
I can hope to write with this much feeling and connection to my audience, but I might need a few lessons from Lexy.
If I had anything to tell Lexy, I'd tell her she's not alone and that those voices who are telling her she's not likeable and not good enough and that it's all her fault are liars. Depression is a lying bitch.
I've had more than my share of depression and there are many days that I wish I had more hypomania because that is a much more pleasant state to be in. Depression kills. Not just the body, because in women, it's usually more of a cry for help than it is in men. It kills the spirit. It kills the hope. It kills the belief that anything will ever get better.
You have those voices in your head that beat you up for not being more grateful for what you have. They tell you that you are worthless. They tell you that no one likes you. They tell you that no matter what you say, it's going to be the wrong thing.
After reading Lexy's post, I realized that even though I have four tattoos and am not crazy about any of them because they weren't well thought out or planned and there is no continuity, the one that I want on my wrist is the one that I will love. The purple butterfly. Because for me, the butterfly represents freedom. It represents the little loved one that passed away too soon. It represents fibromyalgia. And it expresses what I want to express about myself. It's a symbol of the freedom I wish for my body and mind.
It's hard to express what it represents, but I know that it represents me.
I've done a search of tattoo places in Winchester and there are several. One was recommended to me and I need to make an appointment and just go get the damned thing done.
I wonder what the nurses will think when I am 95 and in assisted living, probably senile out of my mind, with five tattoos. I can only imagine how weird five tattoos will look on a 95 year old woman, but I'm sure most medical professionals have seen weirder things, right?
And what does it matter. Because it's my body and my choice, right? I think it's time for a trip to the tattoo parlor. If you want something for over a year, you probably really do want it. Maybe I just need someone to go with me for courage. Not because of the pain, but because of the fear.