Postby starlooker » Mon Feb 14, 2011 12:44 pm
Well, Bob, after the lizard tattoo, I ended up putting on three others. Pretty, glittery butterfly and flower things. One on my other forearm, and one on each of my upper arms, right below my scars. And I looked in the mirror at my own real tattoo, and suddenly was struck with a yearning for another one. And another yearning, to use my felt-tip markers and just go crazy drawing on my arms like I used to. It started with ball point pens in high school. I would cover my left hand in little ball-point-blue flowers, all over. I'd try to wash it off before my mother saw, as it drove her absolutely crazy when I would write on myself. And then it advanced my freshman year of college. Oh, God, they were intricate designs that would fill my entire left forearm and hand. Done in permanent marker so it would take several days to fade. Black, red, and blue, since those were the colors I had in these awesome sharpie markers that had a fine tip on one end, and a marker-tip on the other. Always started with eyes that were crying and worked my way out. Those really weren't the focal point of the design; their really wasn't one. Sometimes symbolic, sometimes not. I once cut into the tears, and it was one of the most powerful moments of expression I've ever experienced. Still have those scars on my forearm, three of the four, above the little lizard.
I don't miss hurting myself, Bob, and I haven't for a longish time. Not really missed it. When I start to, I immediately think back to the repurcussions from the last time and that puts a cold halt on the thought. But you know what I do miss? I miss my body-as-canvas. Skin as blank page on which to doodle.
I might ask my PCP to refer me to a dermatologist to consult with about my scars. I'm past the point of needing them or wanting them or fearing losing them. The memory of them as a part of me is enough, now. They are self, but not a particularly precious part of self anymore. I seldom really notice them in the mirror. Husband, when I've asked, says the same. Obviously, he sees them, but he doesn't really notice them anymore. They're just there. I swim with them, I don't suffer pangs of regret when I look at clothes without sleeves. I used to. God, it felt like spring and summer fashion season's sole purpose was to make me feel like a freak. But that's changed. Not being able to buy shorts or sleeveless shirts basically strikes me like not being able to buy a tube top -- just wrong for my body, not something to blame anyone for, a simple matter of taste given what I look like. But I was thinking Saturday night of a three-year old who once asked me about the scars, and the look of concern on his face, and I think about someday what, should I have children, they might ask me, and that causes an inner trembling. The story is past, but the retelling is painful to certain audiences.
The retelling is also powerful. I am feeling rising in me a major desire for an expression of me. Written, artistic, whatever. A reconnection with things remote. It needs to happen. I need that to happen. I need myself to have a more clear context.
There's another home somewhere,
There's another glimpse of sky...
There's another way to lean
into the wind, unafraid.
There's another life out there...
~~Mary Chapin Carpenter