My Body Art

My body art.

“I've given keys to my heart with open hands, which were mistaken as daggers and have been thrust away or towards me in perceived retaliation.

I've had love and trust tattooed on my body, all my heart worn on my sleeve - in hopes one day someone will give me a key in return.

I've covered a mistake, which will always remain in my memory, burned and etched in my soul... invisible to everyone around me - something those closest to me know, and protect me from.

I had the strength of gods on my arm, rebirth on my shoulder, luck on my elbow and serenity on my side.

In my core, I tell myself only one life, enjoy it and live it to the fullest - it's your choice. Love and trust as a reminder above it all. There's much more to come...”

This is a poem I wrote, detailing my tattoos, their meaning and my thoughts. I had never gotten any tattoos until I had met what is now my ex-fianceé and former abuser. Before meeting him, I had a tendency to see the world through rose-colored lenses, a type of blissful ignorance one could say. People speak of abuse, like it’s easy to leave - there’s a lack of understanding as to why someone could stand to stay with someone like that. I was one of those people prior to meeting him. Then it all changed.

Magical. That was the word I would probably use above the others to describe the beginning of our relationship. He put me on a pedestal, showered me in love and affection - and I reciprocated. Lovebombing. It was this intense passion, a rush of natural chemicals that allowed me to overlook those slights, the gaslighting and abusive words and actions that ever so slowly seeped into and contaminated our fairytale. I never had such an intense experience of love in my life, and never in my darkest dreams would’ve thought it would come to a grinding halt. I was in heaven until one day....

Sitting on the couch, daylight sleeping through semi-transparent white curtains - I sat there staring at my phone in disbelief. A stranger had sent me a message. Three months from that moment, my fiancée and I were going to be standing at an altar in Mexico, exchanging vows in a fairytale wedding. The deposit was made, arrangements planned, flights booked, dress picked out and I was planning on purchasing it that day. That never happened.

She was a pretty blonde, my canary in a coal mine. She opened my eyes, and showed me proof of my fiancées secret, dark side. I honestly stared at my screen, in the sunlight, blinking the tears away - dumbfounded that this was happening. My dreams crumbled and fell into oblivion and this was just the start of a very dark nightmare. At this point in time part of me didn’t want to believe, and just wanted to forget what I saw - but once trust is broken, it is very difficult - perhaps impossible to fix.

This is when the spell was broken and abuse started seeping into my life. It had already started long before, I just hadn’t noticed because of my rosy outlook. Gaslighting. This is the most accurate word I found for this gradual abuse. Crazy making. He would tell me things didn’t happen the way I saw, and I was making it up. This started out relatively minor, things like leaving something on the counter and blaming me for it. When I know I didn’t do it. It escalated, each time it was a worse fight, picked over nothing. I was called different names in the book. Told I didn’t show my love for him enough and deserved what I got - that I wasn’t worthy of what he gave me. I believed him and started to become a hollow shell of who I was. My esteem was near zero - I sat in my car, garage door closed, engine running. I wanted it all to end. The pain, sorrow, madness... this wasn’t me anymore. My sister opened the door and rescued me. In any other frame of mind I wouldn’t have been in there, but it was like being a frog boiled in a pot of cold water - almost didn’t react and leave until it was too late. I honestly wasn’t in a sane frame of mind at that point, and my life started to change positively after I realized that life is precious, a gift and it will get better. I didn’t know how, just had some blind faith at the time. It was this, and him punching in my dash, angry over my wanting to buy my sister a car with my own money that finally closed the door on our relationship. Starting to make a diary was one of my saving graces - proof that it was how I remembered it and not how he tried to twist it. That started to open my eyes that something was very, very wrong.

Sure, he still tried to weasel his way back into my life, turning on false charms and trying to paint a picture he was this amazing person - when he was far from it. My first tattoo was gotten with his convincing, he wanted me to tattoo his initials along side the phrase all my heart. That phrase was never for him, but for my family, friends and all who truly loved and supported me. His initials needed to be brushed away - covered up. Hence, my half-sleeve. My tattoo artist, Kerry, I had met at another wedding years earlier. I chose him because he was amazing, and convinced me not to have darkness but light, more beautiful works including a Phoenix which represented my rebirth. Having gone to hell and back, my former self dying to reveal someone stronger. Like a Katana, beaten, shoved in the fire to be beaten again and again - only to come out as one of the strongest, sharpest, most beautiful weapons.

Do I regret my choices? Not at all. I will always love my tattoos - they remain a reminder of what was, and remain a beacon of hope, love and trust. So to anyone going through abuse, know there is light - and loving yourself is one of the greatest gifts you can give yourself.