Some Hurt More Than Others

I got my first tattoo within days of turning 18 at a shady tattoo parlor with my 17 years senior half brother's then girlfriend. It was the small logo of Fall Out Boy Pete Wentz's short lived clothing line Clandestine Industries on my lower back and it was crooked. But I was still a senior in high school and it was like hidden rebellion in a southern school that insisted girl's shorts be no more than three inches above the knee, tank top straps be three adult finger widths wide, and no "unnatural" hair colors were allowed.

I'm now about to be 32 and have 13 total. 3 big pieces (1 is the fix up and addition to my first one that had to be fixed.) Some are nice like the red string of fate I got on my pinkie with my mom. Some are for me like the Lord of the Rings quote on my foot or my Nightmare Before Christmas half-sleeve that was really what I'd always wanted but could never afford. A couple got me through some really hard times. I lost a child I never knew I would even want. And the would be father right after. I got My Chemical Romance lyrics tattooed on my left hand so I'd see it every time I did anything (left-handed.) Lyrics on the other hand when my depression hit another low and I had my second suicide attempt. My left side is full of lilies all in shades of black and white. My favorite flower and my view of the world at the same time. Nothing is ever one or the other but many shades in between.

Then there are the ones on my wrists that are hard.

My right wrist is a memorial tattoo for my younger cousin who accidentally killed himself in a gun mishap when he was 15. My aunt, my mom, and I got the same tattoo on what would have been his 21st birthday. The Organ Donor symbol because he saved a lot of lives and a bass cleft because he played the trombone because I played the trombone.

My left wrist is the most difficult. I was in college. Fall of my junior year. I was taking 18 credit hours. Working nights 11-7, class from 8-noon, a break until about 4 then band until 5:30 or so. The only days I had off were for football games or one of the two organizations I was involved in. I'd moved off campus with a couple friends at this point. Three official roommates and Cameron our unofficial fourth roommate because she was there all the time. Cameron was one of those people that you could walk into a party or something and hear her laugh from the other side of the place and it was so unique and so goofy and so INFECTIOUS that you'd immediately be like, "Yup, Cameron's here." She was a half Mexican hippie that was never without a weed pipe and a hula hoop. You ever have a friend that could infuriate you but you'd still love them anyway? That was Cameron. She did crazy things all the time. It was just who she was. She liked hallucinogenics. LSD mainly but sometimes shrooms and she didn't shy from mixing things together. She was a terrible drunk. Locked up 3 different breathalyzers on her car. There's some bad memories but there's also a lot of strange and hilarious memories. Like the time she showed up at my house at 3 am tripping and drunk wearing sunglasses. Kicked my newish boyfriend out of my bed. Told him she didn't know why I was dating him because I was prettier than him and that I was hers first before passing out in my lap. Or her barging into my house handing me a giant bottle of vodka telling me happy birthday my boyfriend sucked he didn't know my favorite flower.

The last time I saw her alive I was leaving for work the Monday after Halloween 2010. Her and my roommate had just gotten back from a music festival weekend and they showed up as I was leaving. It was a "I MISSED YOUR BEAUTIFUL FACE SEE YOU AFTER YOU GET OFF WORK" and that was it. I got home everyone was asleep the house was dark but it definitely looked like a party had happened. My boyfriend at the time was an alcoholic. And an awful drunk. Never hit me but bowed up a few times. Mostly he just said awful things. Things you wouldn't say to someone you supposedly love. I went to class. Came home. Went to bed. My roommate was at her parents because she'd caught a cold at the festival. I get up and go to work again. Tuesday passes. Wednesday afternoon I was in the living room doing some homework before I was supposed to be at work again and my roommate came in the door asking if I'd seen or heard from Cameron. I said no. It wasn't unusual not to. She lost phones. Ended up at other people's places. But she hadn't shown up to work and she wasn't answering her phone.

I swear time slowed down. My roommate came back in the living room and said I don't think Cameron is breathing. My role all my life has been "The Mom Friend" I go into "Fix It Mode" and don't deal with things. So I go in the room and immediately I know she's dead. And she's been dead. She was the wrong color. But I checked for a pulse anyway just in case there was a snowball's chance in hell. Nothing. I call 911. In that state the ambulances aren't part of the hospital they're a separate service and that place was only two blocks over. The lady asks me to stay on the line. I hear the ambulance sirens fire up. And your brain does weird things in shock because my first thought was "Cameron can't hear that." They were coming for her and she couldn't hear it. My roommate had called Cameron's little sister. I was still on the phone and no one stopped her going in the room. She just started screaming. Just agonized screaming. The rest of it was a blur. They police taped off our whole house because they found "drug paraphernalia" in her purse. Everyone we knew and some people we didn't were in our front yard. It was on Facebook before I could get her mom on the phone. It was like a walking, living nightmare. We all had to go give statements. Apparently she'd done a lot of drugs that weekend. Drank a lot of alcohol. Not eaten anything. Came home that night and they all got trashed. They put her to bed like they would if she was drunk normally and she just didn't wake up.

And then I was alone in the house. Everyone else was at another person's house getting drunk. Drunk. After that's what killed her. I cleaned the room. And my entire house. I lost it in the hallway cleaning the baseboards sometime in the early hours of the morning and finally cried. Alone. She was my first person when I moved all that way. And she was gone. Like a light had literally gone out. I got my tattoo a day or so later. It felt like something was pushing me to do it. She'd always wanted one but could never settle on what she wanted. This year is the ten year anniversary and I still look at that tattoo every single day. She left a permanent mark on my heart and now she always be a permanent mark on my skin. My wild child hippie flower girl.

"Do you realize that you have the most beautiful face?" -The Flaming Lips"