In My Own Words, Lifestyle

Tattoos: A Reclamation of the Body That’s Always Been Mine

I got my first tattoo when I was twenty-four. I didn’t get my next until last month when I was in Denver visiting my best friend. The last set of tattoos were about embracing and even publicizing my queerness, specifically my lesbian identity. In hindsight, I should’ve gotten them years ago; it’s really cut down on the number of men who approach me out in the world. Also they make me happy.  

For my 31st birthday, I doubled my number of tattoos by getting three all at once. They also mean a great deal for very personal reasons. The most personal being the most visible. No one has asked yet, but I know it will be commented on one day. I have no idea how I’ll handle it, hopefully with grace. 

After getting my tattoos in Denver, I knew I wanted more. And I knew exactly what I wanted to get. I didn’t have any set plans for when or where I would get them, but I knew it would be sooner rather than later. 

I’m going to take this moment to introduce Meghan. A few names pop up in my writing with frequency: Dylan, Alex, Amanda, Kelsey. Meghan has been mentioned multiple times over the last eight months but never by name. I don’t name people often because I really do like to keep my private life private. Also I am guarded, and it takes a long time for me to be convinced someone actually wants to be in my life for the good and the bad. Once they make an appearance in my writing, there’s no undoing that. For whatever reason, people pay attention to me and my writing and ask questions when new people show up or when regulars disappear. Eight months is actually quite fast for me to mention a name, but we bonded fast, and sometimes you just know when a human is for you. I figure she’s probably sticking around at this point; we’ve been through a lot. I might as well let her have her name. Plus, like all my other notable friends, she has an exceptionally generic name, unlike me, so there’s still a modicum of anonymity; except I will tag her on Instagram, so if you really want to know what she looks like: good luck her profile is private. Anyways, Meghan is a fundamental human in my life. Why do I mention her now? Because she’s an important part of this story. 

A week before my birthday, Meghan asked what I wanted to do on my birthday. I generally don’t think about it because a) I hate my birthday b) I just let whoever’s in my life plan whatever they want for me c) or I ignore it completely. After giving it some thought, I told her I wanted to have it be very low-key, get tattoos, and have a bonfire. So that’s exactly what we did. 

On the day of my birth, we both got tattooed. Her tattoo is her story to tell, but I will tell you about mine. I got an 8 on my left ankle, servive just above my right elbow, and a crocus on my ribs near my heart.

A perfect 8 for a perfect boy.

The 8 was not originally a tattoo I knew I wanted. On May 7, Meghan and I buried her cat Ocho, who died suddenly. My gay concentric circles tattoo (read about that here) is partially in honor of Ocho’s dog brother, Nigel, who also passed far too soon. I spent so much time with both Ocho and Nigel since meeting Meghan. They weren’t my pets, but they absolutely stole my heart in every single way. When they both passed, I was truly devastated. I still miss them. Ocho was all but a kitten. He and I played… hard. When he wanted to play and I didn’t, he would attack my ankles like the apex predator he was. He ruined my ankle modeling career with his murder mittens. I still have scars. He was also the snuggliest, sweetest, goodest, most determined, stubbornest, swiftest boy in the world. So when he died, I knew I wanted to get something to commemorate him like I did his brother. Nothing felt more right than an 8 on the ankle he loved to shred. I miss him every single day, but I carry a sweet little reminder of his ridiculous antics. 

I love flowers. My best friend, Amanda, is a floral designer who turned me into a subpar designer when she needs me, so now flowers are more than just something to be admired. I appreciate them. I also know a lot more about them than I did a few years ago. So Amanda helped me figure out which flower best represented what I wanted to communicate to myself because… this tattoo will really only be seen when I want to show someone. It’s more of a show and tell kind of thing. 

22 year old me would be extraordinarily surprised by all of these tattoos but especially this one.

The tattoo placement and color is an interesting choice for a couple reasons. I always said I would never get color tattoos… Woops. I have a very colorful arm tattoo and a very colorful crocus tattoo. I also said I would never get a tattoo on my torso until after I had child[ren] because I don’t want stretch marks to ruin them. The older I get, the less and less likely it is I have a kid, so fuck it. 

Crocuses thrive in adverse conditions. They actually can’t bloom without four months of below freezing temperatures. They bloom even when there’s snow on the ground. Year after year, crocuses come back with more and more blooms. Small and delicate flowers with a huge impact and an ability to thrive because of the chilling period. I feel like a crocus that hasn’t bloomed yet. I feel like someday I will thrive because of the chilling period. That I will bloom because of the harsh conditions I have servived. I wanted it near my heart because sometimes I think my heart needs the reminder that all the pain it has endured will lead to something beautiful. I just don’t know what the fuck that beauty looks like yet. Hopefully, I servive long enough to find out. I chose the color purple because it’s my alma mater’s color; the place I met two loves of my life, Alex and Kelsey. I would not be here covering myself with tattoos if they had not chosen to love me all those years ago.  

servive was the hardest. It took me two weeks to be emotionally stable after inking myself. I was truly a wreck the day after my birthday. I didn’t get off the couch. 

My favorite but the absolute hardest.

“Servive” is a word I came up with because I hate being called a survivor. I am. I was cyclically raped for years. I’m a domestic violence, sexual assault, rape, psychological abuse survivor. It’s an integral part of who I am. It’s not something I have ever hidden from. But I hate the term survivor. I didn’t survive. The girl I was before is dead. Everything I went through killed that person. Who I am now is not who I was. I will never be her again, and I would give anything to be the person I was before. I am not stronger, I did not survive, but those are conversations for another post another time. So, I coined the term servivor or servive because I use my experiences, my story to serve others, to make change, to bring awareness. There has to be good that comes out of the hell I call my life. 

I watched the ink needled into my skin as each letter of servive started to appear. I cried the whole time. It was hard and overwhelming and emotional. I knew it would be hard, but I had no idea how awful it would be. I’m glad Meghan was there because I needed someone who loved me to be by my side. The men who hurt me left their mark on my heart and soul and memory. It’s indelible. I will never forget. But they’re invisible. I only had invisible reminders of the men who killed the person I was before. Now I have a physical reminder. It’s not for everyone. For me, I needed it. I need that pain to be visible, even if I’m the only one who understands.  

The process of having servive tattooed on my body felt like I was branding myself with every wrong and violence those men put my body and mind through. It was awful. It was horrifically painful emotionally. I was not okay in any way. Choosing to put it in a visible place was a choice I made for myself. A very hard choice that opens me up to questions because it’s misspelled, but it also opens me up to vulnerability just as much as animosity. I made that choice knowing it would be hard. It’s one of the few times I’ve underestimated how difficult something would be. I do not regret it. I love this tattoo more than the others because it’s hard. Because I earned it. It is a reminder of where I’ve been, so many obstacles I’ve overcome, an allowance to give myself grace, and a message to not give up. 

While I was getting the first of the three tattoos, Meghan had just finished getting hers. She sat down to watch me get mine, as much for her own amusement as in support. She asked a question that I will never forget, which she does frequently without meaning to, it’s irritating how accidentally insightful she can be, “After you get a tattoo, do you feel like it was always supposed to be there?” I had never thought of it in that way, but the only tattoo I had up until six weeks ago is not extraordinarily visible. Having it felt right. But it had also been there for seven years, and I go long periods of time without seeing it. With my most recent tattoos, I see them constantly. I can’t agree with her more. 

Looking at these tattoos on my body, they feel like they were always supposed to be there. I feel more myself than I’ve ever felt before. I wasn’t the kid who looked at tattoos and thought I would have them. It wasn’t until I was in my early twenties that I even considered getting one. I’m a cautious person by nature, and tattoos are permanent. These tattoos, that mean a great deal, feel like I’m finally reclaiming my body—something I constantly struggle with. These tattoos make my body feel like my home. Like I’m taking ownership of something that has always belonged to me but was never accessible. Marking it. Making it my own. Decorating it with things that make me happy, turning it into a representation of my truest self.  

For my 31st birthday, I got tattooed. I’m slowly giving my body back to myself. 

In My Own Words, Lifestyle

I Am A Servivor

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“Just another career-obsessed, nail-biting, manophobic, hell-bent feminist she-devil.”

I hate the title survivor

I’m not a victim. Not anymore. I was a victim when it was happening. But after…

There isn’t a word I’ve found to resonate with my broken pieces. And I’m a words-person. Silence. Nothing. Guilt. Solitude. Shame. Numb. Lost. Broken. They’re not titles I can put on a shirt or a sign to identify myself as one of many in a march. They are feelings. The feelings that have never left me from the moment his hands first touched me with violence in their intent. 

I never say, “I’m a survivor,” or “I survived.” I can’t. It feels like a lie. It would be a lie. I didn’t. I did not stand up as the same girl he held down. I didn’t survive. Rape is murder. He murdered who I was. Every time killed a part of me. 

The closest I’ve ever come to finding a way to describe myself is “raped,” but people don’t like that. If people have to face humanity’s ability for violence and destruction, they want to see someone strong and owning it or broken and hiding it. Survivor. How happy. How uplifting. What a positive spin on a tragic epidemic. It’s ignoring the actions that were survived. Focusing on the survivor having survived. Past tense. It happened. It’s done. Let it go. Move on. 

Survivor. It’s a bow to wrap up a present we don’t want to open. We know the gist of what happened. Some hazy sort of violence. No specifics needed; that one word says it all. It tears down the facade we’ve so diligently constructed, letting people in just enough for them to know there’s a dark past but not enough they actually know a damn thing. Survivor: say the word. People get a sad look in their eyes, “I’m so sorry.” But stop there. It’s a bow to wrap up the story people don’t want to hear. 

Ignoring the story, the nitty gritty of it, is its own kind of violence. 

Putting people at ease, letting them remain in their comfort zone is easy, kind. It does not facilitate change. If people are comfortable, they’re complacent. Change comes from agitation rooted in pain and suffering. I don’t write about this because it’s fun to dwell in the dark pain of someone’s choices to destroy my mind and undermine my identity. I write because I was raped. I was raped for years. I was beaten. I was abused. I was shared. I was torn. I was hurt. I write because too many people can say the same. Some say it. Many do not. Silence is a virtue. I don’t have that virtue. I had no voice for so long, but I have one now. I tell my story to make people uncomfortable. I tell my story because it is time for change. I tell my story because it has helped people, opened minds, changed minds, softened minds, and made people angry. I tell my story because I can. Many are not able to because of pain or circumstance or they’re no longer alive to tell theirs. I am still here. A broken, tired, angry, hurt version of who I used to be. I did not survive, but I am still here. 

I have been writing and blogging and processing in various ways for almost a decade. In college, I wrote under a pseudonym about being a stripper to pay for school and food and a roof not because I was ashamed but because I didn’t know what my future was uncertain. After college, I started a blog to talk about my life and how I struggle to pick up the pieces of my soul. A few years ago, I started …on the B.L., and it quickly grew into something real with a following. I haven’t kept my past or advocacy separate from this, but I haven’t focused on it either. It’s been present by quiet. But no more. This is the driving force behind everything I do. Creating change. My story, as painful as it is, keeps me going.

I hate the word survivor. I don’t feel like I survived. I feel like I just didn’t die; though, there were years I wished I had. I like the word servivor. I’m using my story to serve others by creating change in whatever way I can.  

I am a servivor

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I will stand tall. I will stand firm. I will tell my story. I will serve.