I've wanted a tattoo for over five years. Unfortunately, my concept of what I wanted has changed from year to year, month to month, even week to week. I knew such indecision did not bode well for something as permanent as tattooing. And so I continued to wait, to ponder, to plot, to design. (Thank God I did, otherwise I would have a daisy on my upper left arm. *shudder*)
At A Glance Author Machina Contact Machina@bme.anon IAM DeaExMachina When Three months ago Artist Hoode Studio Body Graphics Location Philadelphia One day in class as I was doodling in my notebook margins, I noticed a few repeating symbols. The most prevalent were stars and teardrops. Teardrops....hmm. I began remembering how I would trace this symbol everywhere: in the steam-fogged glass of the shower, with my toe on the bathroom tile, my fingers on my lover's back....and none of the time realizing what I was doing, almost as if my subconscious was trying to communicate with me. The more I thought about it, the more significance the teardrop acquired. I've always had a trace of melancholy in my nature. I cry easily over music and movies. (Am I an emo kid at heart? Please God no!) And yet tears can be happy, and even brought on by laughter. A simple picture, reflecting my current subculture association (so gothic I am!) yet not restricted to that changeable aspect of my personality. Everything I could think of fit perfectly. And it just felt RIGHT.
I had my symbol. Next step was planning location. Somewhere I could see, show off if I wanted, yet also concealable if necessary. I decided on my chest, so that it would snuggle in my cleavage. It would have a sort of pendant effect, as if I was wearing a teardrop necklace on an invisible chain. I was captivated.
As the months passed, my fervor for this idea remained undimmed. I knew what I wanted, where I wanted it, and I had decided on a pale shimmery green for a color, as if a suncatcher was throwing a shadow onto my skin. I knew the next time I had enough money, I would go get my first tattoo, at long last.
Enter the financially blessed new friend. We took him in when he was broke, and soon afterwards he came into a lot of money. To thank me and my roommates for our friendship and hospitality, he took us out for a "House Mod Day." My other roommates got tattoos or piercings. I got my tragus pierced and then at long last, went to get tattooed.
The actual process went very quickly. I had a rather hard time describing how I wanted the shading, and how subtle it was to be. The artist and I hit an agreement, and he sketched it out and marked my chest. I made sure the placement was where I wanted it, centered and even, and I then laid back to get my ink.
I knew the amount of bone on the area getting tattooed would add to the discomfort, but I definitely over-anticipated the pain. The discomfort was minimal, and the whole thing only took about ten minutes. I kept waiting for more intense pain to sink in, but I really cannot remember any real pain compared to what I was expecting. Warmth, prickling, pressure.... that's about all I remember about getting tattooed. Afterwards I was madly excited and showing off to everyone, and healing was fast, painless, and mostly complication-free. I had a bad moment when it looked like the ink was leaking out; I realized it was because I had glooped on way too much lotion on the fresh tattoo, and it actually did draw out a bit of ink. I remedied my error and had no more trouble afterward.
A few months later, myself and all my friends were badly betrayed by this individual who got me my tattoo. He destroyed one of my best friends, whom he was dating at the time. He trashed my fiance's reputation. A lot of lies came out into the open, including the way he had lied to me to try and get me to leave my boyfriend. We all deeply regret his involvement in our lives, and would rather just forget about him; yet the body modifications he paid for are a lasting reminder of our over-trusting natures. In that sense, I am actually glad he paid for my teardrop tattoo. It now has a new significance, a constant reminder of the pain he caused to all of us, and a monument to the danger of premature trust. I cannot look at my chest without seeing the permanent mark of a tear, and remembering the lesson I learned.
I am happy with my first tattoo. It is subtle and not too bold, and this is okay with me. Its painful associations are bearable, and they help me remember what I might otherwise forget: the lesson I learned this summer about self-preservation.