This might be triggering or upsetting if you don't like the thought of needles.
Well, I decided I should start thinking about a diary, read the guidelines and got scared. Don't know if I am ready for that and don't know why I can't yet bring myself to do it just yet. The time is not right. So I am here with my thoughts.
I was reading through the postings today and discovered the one on self-harm and thought, geeze--this is exactly what I did. Last year when I turned 50, I decided I had always been this compliant, prudish, evangelical Christian girl/woman all my life. I have hurt emotionally these past couple of years more than I can say after telling this secret I'd harbored since about age four or five. Deciding to disclose it and then being denied was this incredible, overwhelming grief I cannot describe. Like letting a hungary tiger with a taste for human flesh out of its cage and then waiting to be eaten. I don't remember exactly how old I was when my abuse happened--I wasn't in kindergarten yet. What happened to me as a kid left me (as an adult) feeling contaminated, unclean, damaged, unworthy, filthy... You all know the metaphors.
The depression in 2008 and part of 2009 was unbearable. I wanted to scream for lack of progress in my emotional life and felt like I was running toward the edge of a steep cliff, out of control unable to get my feet to stop their motion. PTSD became this gigantic leech attached to me sucking the life out of me. I wanted to do something really hurtful and stupid with my life--so out of charater it would shock people. Get drunk in public and drive home totally bombed, buy grass and smoke, show up stoned for work although I have never touched illicit drugs in my life. I don't know, anything that was so out of character so that it matched how depraved I felt in my mind and soul. I wanted a risk and decided that I, perfect miss goody-two-shoes, was going to get myself tatooed.Something permanent that left me changed--irreversible like the consequences of my abuse. Something considered trashy" and "trampy" by those who don't understand the art of it--I mean no offense to those who have been beguiled by body art and now after undergoing a little "body modifcation" I get it--no judgement on anyone but I advise people everyday about the negative social implications of tatoos when looking for a job. Society in general doesn't like them...
Even the most liberal people I told in the office thought it was risky because of hepatitis and blood bourne pathogens and all that stuff. You could get an infection, it's not religious or very spiritual; it's unprofessional, ad infinitum... I just wanted to have control over one piece of my life at that period in time--to give up a part of myself on my terms vs. someone taking advantage of my body and soul as happened as a child. With a tatoo, at least I could control who marked me and how. I had a voice in the scar that was put on my soul. And I wanted to feel the pain and be able to say to someone "stop hurting me" which was a choice I didn't have at four or five. I started with a small, dark pink rose. Then added another rose and then a humming bird and then a third rose and then had the artist free hand some greenery in and around them. I assigned my tatoo gallery its own secret meaning. Whether I will announce to the world one day what it means, I don't know. It is my own symbolism. I enjoyed the pain of it because I knew when it healed each time it would be a beautiful secret, known only to me, under my clothes. Every time the needles hit my skin I thought I can stop the pain and the bleeding any time I wish because I am in control here. I felt a relief from it...from the pain. Odd huh. It hit me after my sessions "in the chair" that I was bordering on self-harm. This was my version of "cutting" in disguise. Each time the pain was a relief. I knew I was alive when I felt it. Will I do more? I doubt it.These last few months in getting my story out to someone who is listening and hearing the pain I felt as a child quells the need for physical pain in the present time. The garden of roses on my skin will most likely be the end of my tatoos but thinking back on the process I see why I had such a need to feel that pain. The tatoos have become part of me, like what happened long ago, except they are my choice in my time and with my permission. Strange, huh?
:dontknow:
Gina
Well, I decided I should start thinking about a diary, read the guidelines and got scared. Don't know if I am ready for that and don't know why I can't yet bring myself to do it just yet. The time is not right. So I am here with my thoughts.
I was reading through the postings today and discovered the one on self-harm and thought, geeze--this is exactly what I did. Last year when I turned 50, I decided I had always been this compliant, prudish, evangelical Christian girl/woman all my life. I have hurt emotionally these past couple of years more than I can say after telling this secret I'd harbored since about age four or five. Deciding to disclose it and then being denied was this incredible, overwhelming grief I cannot describe. Like letting a hungary tiger with a taste for human flesh out of its cage and then waiting to be eaten. I don't remember exactly how old I was when my abuse happened--I wasn't in kindergarten yet. What happened to me as a kid left me (as an adult) feeling contaminated, unclean, damaged, unworthy, filthy... You all know the metaphors.
The depression in 2008 and part of 2009 was unbearable. I wanted to scream for lack of progress in my emotional life and felt like I was running toward the edge of a steep cliff, out of control unable to get my feet to stop their motion. PTSD became this gigantic leech attached to me sucking the life out of me. I wanted to do something really hurtful and stupid with my life--so out of charater it would shock people. Get drunk in public and drive home totally bombed, buy grass and smoke, show up stoned for work although I have never touched illicit drugs in my life. I don't know, anything that was so out of character so that it matched how depraved I felt in my mind and soul. I wanted a risk and decided that I, perfect miss goody-two-shoes, was going to get myself tatooed.Something permanent that left me changed--irreversible like the consequences of my abuse. Something considered trashy" and "trampy" by those who don't understand the art of it--I mean no offense to those who have been beguiled by body art and now after undergoing a little "body modifcation" I get it--no judgement on anyone but I advise people everyday about the negative social implications of tatoos when looking for a job. Society in general doesn't like them...
Even the most liberal people I told in the office thought it was risky because of hepatitis and blood bourne pathogens and all that stuff. You could get an infection, it's not religious or very spiritual; it's unprofessional, ad infinitum... I just wanted to have control over one piece of my life at that period in time--to give up a part of myself on my terms vs. someone taking advantage of my body and soul as happened as a child. With a tatoo, at least I could control who marked me and how. I had a voice in the scar that was put on my soul. And I wanted to feel the pain and be able to say to someone "stop hurting me" which was a choice I didn't have at four or five. I started with a small, dark pink rose. Then added another rose and then a humming bird and then a third rose and then had the artist free hand some greenery in and around them. I assigned my tatoo gallery its own secret meaning. Whether I will announce to the world one day what it means, I don't know. It is my own symbolism. I enjoyed the pain of it because I knew when it healed each time it would be a beautiful secret, known only to me, under my clothes. Every time the needles hit my skin I thought I can stop the pain and the bleeding any time I wish because I am in control here. I felt a relief from it...from the pain. Odd huh. It hit me after my sessions "in the chair" that I was bordering on self-harm. This was my version of "cutting" in disguise. Each time the pain was a relief. I knew I was alive when I felt it. Will I do more? I doubt it.These last few months in getting my story out to someone who is listening and hearing the pain I felt as a child quells the need for physical pain in the present time. The garden of roses on my skin will most likely be the end of my tatoos but thinking back on the process I see why I had such a need to feel that pain. The tatoos have become part of me, like what happened long ago, except they are my choice in my time and with my permission. Strange, huh?
:dontknow:
Gina