Much to my mother’s chagrin, I got another tattoo this weekend.
All tattoos have a story, don’t they? Even the ones that are “I just thought it was cute and wanted one because I was in college and being a rebel.” There is always a reason.
Ten years ago a few things happened: I found out I was pregnant, I lost that pregnancy, I started a blog, and I got a tattoo. I would say it was a busy year, but that is pretty much just how our married life has been. Highs and lows with very little in between.
When I started this blog I called it our Family Website. I was going to post photos and write little blurbs about what was going on in our life. I think in the first couple years of this blog’s life I probably only wrote a handful of things that were real and not just superficial “look at this fun day at the beach;” my tattoo post was one of them.
Contrary to what my mom probably thinks, I don’t take permanently “disfiguring” myself lightly (Cortney’s words in jest, not my mom’s). The first time, I tattooed what my students think is a V on my neck. It’s not a V. It’s two things: it’s the Aries sign and it’s also the Egyptian hieroglyphic for “woman.” You can read that post up there for more details, but basically after getting unexpectedly pregnant when I wasn’t sure that I ever wanted babies, then miscarrying that baby (and feeling like it was my fault), Cortney and I realized we wanted to be parents. Women’s bodies are strong, yo. That tattoo was for womanly strength.
Since then I have been writing.
Before I knew I had an anxiety disorder or depression or OCD or needed medication or therapy, I wrote to get it out of my head.
When I was having intrusive thoughts, I wrote them out of my head and then destroyed the evidence.
When I realized that one of my biggest fears in life was being forgotten and lost in time and space, I wrote out my stories.
When I decided to turn all of my passion for reading and writing and education into a PhD program, I wrote articles and journal pieces and conference proposals.
When I wanted my children to know me as I am in this moment, I wrote letters.
When I acted too impulsively or said things without thinking or made an ass of myself, I wrote to apologize.
When I missed or loved or thought of people, I wrote to them.
When I wanted my students to learn to write, I wrote with them.
Writing has kept me alive for the past ten years.
I’m placing my faith in writing to keep me alive forever.
Write.
It’s a command.
Write.
ps. My mom is not really that upset.
pps. Yes she is.
ppps. I love you, mom. Thanks for loving me despite my disfigurement.
