I'm a highly addictive individual. I go through periods of addiction, with a few constants like my good pal coffee. (speaking of which- I'm going to go make a cup, be right back)
In middle school it was hair dye. In sixth grade my young, fun aunt snuck me into our upstairs bathroom and helped me dye a streak of my hair purple. Being that I have nearly black hair, the purple didn't show up but I don't think I ever realized that. From there I had nearly a dozen failed attempts at going blond (the end results ranged from copper to bluish green). I tried highlights, low lights, chestnut, red, jet black and so on.
Quickly my hair grew weak from all the chemicals. It was crying for me to leave it alone. At that time nothing in my life seamed stable, I longed for something permanent. I went through a harsh period of "cutting", leaving unfortunate scars all over my body. (A large "WHY" still shows on my upper thigh- a constant reminder to be kind to myself and respect my body. ) From there I took what seemed like the next step in my mind- I got my first tattoo. I was sixteen and in the middle stages of my eating disorder. I wanted to be free from the nonstop pain I was feeling. I wanted to be myself again, so I got a dove ( my last name- Coulombe- is french for Dove) with the word FREE under it on my wrist. Simple, elegant and still my favorite. From the minute I got attention for having one of the only tattoos in my grade I was hooked. I began writing lists of all the tattoos I wanted during class. At night I scoured the Internet for ideas.
Only a few months later I go my next tattoo- A "life tree" and moon on my upper back with the word BREATH underneath. Again, simple and elegant. Soon after I got a paw print on my leg with a "B" for all of my dogs (Boomer, Bandit, Buster, Beast, Bug). My parents were growing worried of my need for ink, and set down the rules. No more tattoos or I'd be in trouble. Trouble was not exactly in my vocabulary. I had never been grounded, never gotten my allowance taken away, never had my car privileges threatened. So I got another one, for all the wrong reasons. I found the entry in my diary a few years later from the day I got it.
"Today fucking sucks. I'm the most awkward person in the caf. When is the fucking bell going to ring? I don't know what I'm going to do when I get out, I'm in the worst mood. Maybe go to Borders? Ryan's hanging out with Jon. I should just get that tattoo. The rose. yeah. Good. And maybe get my nails done next door."
I didn't get this tattoo for any significant value it held. I got it because I couldn't stand to sit with myself for even one afternoon. I did just what I said I would and left school to get a rose on my foot. For weeks I hid it from my parents, probably more ashamed than worried about punishment. When it was finally noticed my parents were furious. They said they would sell my car if I ever got another tattoo before turning 21. I didn't listen. On another bad day I added another rose, connected to the vines from the previous, in the middle of my shin.
Without a doubt that tattoo is one of my largest regrets from those dark times. It is a constant reminder of how much I hated myself, and how little respect I had for my body. I remember changing my mind about the rose while I was sitting on the tattoo table, but being too scared to tell the guy. I remember how disappointed Ryan was. How sad my parents were. It wasn't what I expected. Angry, sure, but not sad. Now I realize that they could see what I couldn't. They could see that these tattoos were a permanent sign of how hurt I was. I didn't care about the future, I couldn't even handle the present.
Last month I ordered a tattoo cover up, which to my surprise worked pretty well. I had to throw it out because it only made me sad. Seeing my leg so clean and free from the tints of a dark past was so beautiful, but unlike the tattoo itself I knew it wasn't permanent. I hope that teens can try to take their future into consideration more. My new rule of thumb is to wait a year. If you think you want a tattoo wait a year- if you still want it, than maybe it's worth considering. At the time "It's permanent" was nothing more than an expression. I still have a hard time imagining myself growing old with this awful rose. I'm hopeful for better removal technologies. Whether I remove it someday or not, the lesson I've learned is definitely permanent.
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