Triad

As a child, I didn’t have too much of a polarizing opinion of body art. There were some pieces that I liked, and some that I didn’t. Like any other little girl though, I had plenty of adults telling me why I shouldn’t get tattoos or extra piercings. I obviously didn’t listen, because those actions marked the beginning, middle, and end of the most pivotal stage in my life.

It seemed to happen in waves.

In fall of 2017, I joined a dance team. They happened to be who I, at the time, perceived to be the ‘cool kids’ of my tiny world. They had auditions in the beginning of the dance term, and I made the cut, starting my journey as a serious dancer.

I couldn’t do anything but enjoy it. The practices were longer, more intense, and more frequent than I’d ever experienced, but I loved it. I had no major responsibilities, and had more than enough time to spare. All I wanted to do was dance, and I finally had the opportunity to do so on a constant basis, perform in competitions for which it didn’t really matter to me whether or not we won, and I met others who had the same general interests.

Soon, though, a distinct feeling began to creep in just like it had too many times before; lack of belonging, a fuzzy emptiness that couldn’t be shaken. Everytime I laughed with a buddy, or went out to eat with some friends after practice, I felt like an imposter for always feeling empty behind all of it. I’d done things to distract myself from the feeling before, but this time needed to be a little different, as that was how it felt.

So began the triad of subtle modifications. I had noticed that one of my siblings had gotten a new piercing. After asking where they’d gotten it done, they told me that it was really cheap, and if I was thinking about it, that’s where I should go. In hindsight, I could’ve been a little more wary about the places I went to get a needle stuck into my body, despite price, but at the time, I was feeling reckless, so it wasn’t a thought.

In the heart of our city, there’s a crossroads of several large alleys. On the side of one of those alleys, was a gift shop that I was led to the very next day to pay 5 american dollars to get a stud piercing in my cartilage. Afterwards, I was told how to keep it from infection before making my way to a photoshoot that was set up for my dance team.

I remember the feeling of having a little satisfaction at finally doing something for myself that felt almost rebellious. Due to the cold that day, I didn’t feel the aching until that night, and when I did, I realized that it didn’t hurt as badly as I thought it would, and that I would no doubt be getting another.

The next height of this rollercoaster came the next year, about 10 months after my piercing.

I had met someone.

I had started dating around, not wanting anything serious, when I went on a date with someone around my age. When we met, he was immediately supportive of my dancing, as he saw how passionate I was about it. He was in the military, an occupation I wanted nothing to do with (explained later), but he was content with it, and regardless, I began to really like him. We started to meet up every weekend, which soon turned into sleepovers, then into our first ‘I love yous’. It all flew by so quickly before he gave me the news. A deployment.

When he told me, I was moderately surprised, but also disappointed in myself. This was my exact reason for not wanting to date anyone in the military, and here I was living through the exact experience I wouldn’t wish upon anyone. I was on the verge of joining a group I did NOT want to be a part of.

He told me that he would completely understand if I didn’t want to continue dating throughout the amount of time that he’d be gone, but after some thought and conversation, I had decided that I’d like to keep dating him. So that’s what we did.

His deployment was fairly short (six months), but we spoke over video chat almost every day. I’d stopped dancing for the time being, and thrown myself into my work, picking up extra hours wherever I could. Soon those were my only two activities, and I felt myself becoming somewhat miserable, not even caring to eat at most times.

Then I decided that it was time for a change. Maybe if I changed my appearance, something else inside me would shift. Maybe I’d become more confident, or just be so happy with the change that it would spill into my overall happiness. Nonetheless, I decided to go for it, and one night, without warning, cut all of my hair off.

The reaction I received from those around me made the event more lasting: My coworkers all kindly approved, when I showed my mother, she swerved and almost drove off of the road, and when I showed my friends and boyfriend, they all provided me with sweet compliments. But besides my mother’s reaction, no one’s responses really stuck to me. I loved it! I felt it suited me, and it was something new in my life that made the little things easier, like wearing hats, or washing my hair, or getting ready in the morning. It felt amazing.

Most recently, I finally made my way to the biggest milestone.

I had moved in with Previously-mentioned Boyfriend. He had come back from his time away, we’d found an apartment together across the state, and I found a job that, at the time, didn’t seem completely soul-sucking. Everything was working out pretty well. I had been thinking for a while about getting a tattoo, with the saves on Pinterest to prove it, but I couldn’t decide what to get or where. I wanted something that made sense to me, but something I wouldn’t regret in the possibility that I change as a person.

Once I made my final decision, I let my boyfriend convince me a little more before I finally made the appointment. He came with me, and held my hand while I got the needle to my spine (am fairly thin, so this felt like straight needle-to-bone) and cried silently for a good part of it. Everything was over quickly, however, and after an hour, I was being dropped off at home to rest.

As I lay on the couch, I felt accomplished. I’d joined the club, in a sense. Most importantly though, I felt like I’d attached a satisfying conclusion to a story that took years to write. I finally took a sense of control of my body, and it felt like my own. So much so, that I was willing to squeeze it into a wedding dress to marry the man I lived with, and carry his child for what will be full term in November.

I plan to get a few more small piercings, and design a few tiny tattoos. I have always considered myself an artist, and my body is the ultimate canvas. Though these milestones are relatively small, and don’t take up much space, I like to consider this canvas more to my liking than it has ever been.