The Beauty in Pain

I was never a stranger to tattoos. I grew up with them. My mother and my aunts were always getting tattoos when I was small, planning new artwork all the time. We are all artists. We allow our bodies to act as a canvas too. I even remember one night, walking out into the kitchen to see a stranger standing over my mother with a needle. I used to beg her to find a way to give me a tattoo too. Her reply was always simply, "Only when you're old enough." This influence led me to always have an interest in modifying my body, making myself into something uniquely me. I had gotten piercings at a young age and planned for tattoos as soon as I was able. Life never turned out as planned, though.

As I got older, hitting my pre-teens and teenage years, the circumstances in my life progressively got worse. I was pressured into a conservative religion I did not agree with, and at a young age, made to fear death so much so that I couldn’t enjoy life. This religion twisted my mother in ways I never anticipated. She fell into their beliefs that would hold so tight and strip every freedom away, leaving just a shell of a person behind. She wasn’t happy. She took it out on us. The mother I grew up with, loved so much that I couldn’t bear leaving her side, became unrecognizable. This left me lost as I entered my teenage years, the years when a young girl would want her mother at her side, helping her through the hardships that come with growing up.

I plunged into a deep darkness that seemed to have no end in sight. I pushed myself away from my brothers, my family, my old friends. I developed crippling social anxiety, terrified of school, terrified of people, terrified of my mother. I felt alone. Every night, I cried so hard the force of each sob escaping my mouth convinced me I would soon lose my lungs. Desperation for relief led me to sharp objects. It led me to pills. I tore myself to shreds and was proud of it. For years I indulged in this shame. Kids at school used to point at me and whisper. I always had to cover up. I knew deep down what I was doing, was not fair to myself or the people around me. Despite this, I loved my vice, and I held onto my pain like it was the only thing that could define me.

As time went on, I learned how to heal. Numerous suicide attempts taught me I never truly wanted to die. I would continue to struggle with my depression and anxiety, but I began learning to manage it. Our family abandoned this cult-like religion, I made new friends who cared about me, and spent time instead practicing my creative skills. My relapses spread out more and more. One week, one month, one year. I quit.

My relationship with my mother remained rocky, at best, until I was forcefully removed from the house on my 18th birthday. Her boyfriend has a powerful influence on her, and he wasn’t keen on me. This led me to another dark time in my life, where I was alienated from my family and trapped in a toxic, abusive relationship. Still, I remained hopeful. I held my ground and eventually escaped it all. I repaired my relationship with my mother, left my abusive boyfriend, and focused on my work so I could finally find a place to live where I wouldn’t be oppressed by my landlord.

As a server, I used to place people’s orders down only to be met by a quick glance of pity. How sad. What’s wrong with her? Others always brought attention to the scars I had no mind to cover up anymore, that I would always forget were there. These scars had become a part of me. I’ve accepted them, just as I’ve accepted my past and the part of my mind that struggles daily. The past shaped me into who I am today, and I’m proud of that person. Still, when a co-worker snatches up your arm out in the open, just to tell you, “Honey, you didn’t have to do this to yourself,” you can’t help but to feel embarrassed.

At this moment, I finally decided to scrounge up a hefty chunk of my tips and arranged for a tattoo appointment. I already knew what I wanted. I had known for years; I was just waiting for the right time. I was ready to move on and embrace a new phase of my life, one where I don’t allow others to push me around and make me feel any less than the strong woman I am.

I drove over an hour to a tattoo shop owned by a mutual friend, because after all, I still needed that discount. It was already late by the time I got there, darkness setting and surrounding businesses closing up. He welcomed me in and asked me what I wanted. Nervous, I frantically pulled up photos on my phone. A fox, the animal I often associated myself with, looking up to a butterfly. Butterflies to me were always a beautiful symbol of change and transformation, the same change I was going through mentally. It was also the creature I drew on my wrist every day to remind myself not to self harm when I was still struggling with my addictions.

This art would cover up my scars, but not completely. They would still be visible to those who really looked hard enough, but at a glance, it would only be art. That’s what my life is. A piece of art that isn’t finished yet, that’s gotten messy and confusing, but it’s a journey. I allowed an artist to paint my skin with part of this story and turn the pain that everyone else thought was ugly into something beautiful. It hurt, a lot, but I clenched my fist and watched those scars disappear.