my hand tattoos + the desire to die
I get compliments on my hand all the time and I hate looking at it. All I see when I look at them is the ugliness they came from. I remember getting my butterfly tattoo. I was at a party with my ex and drunk. It was at least our 100th time getting back together. I remember spiraling in my head and trying not to show it. I felt so stuck and I wanted to hurt myself. I had gotten my first tattoo on my hand after our last breakup and wanted to break skin again. There was a tattoo artist at the party and I saw the butterfly on her flash sheet. I wanted to become a butterfly so bad in that moment, and break away from this man forever.
I was clearly drunk and no one stopped me. That was the most painful tattoo I ever got. It was so dense with ink and I felt the needle grind against the bones in my hand over and over again. The friction of a tattoo gun begins to burn after a while because of the speed of the needle. I knew I'd regret it but I didn't care. I kind of liked that it hurt so much because it felt like it was killing me. The mix of pain and alcohol made me throw up and we stopped halfway, I didn't want this tattoo but it was already here. So I finished.
I entered a manic episode where I started to coat my entire hand. I didn't care about who did what. I don't even remember what I was thinking. The tattoo artist who did my fingers had made a mistake with the daisy's placement too far to the left. Everything always goes wrong. I wanted things to start making sense. I was sick of this relationship, sick of feeling orphaned, sick of my grandmother being sick. I'm still so sick of it. I didn't know how long I could wait, so I drew the candle. Eventually, there had to be something. Anything. I just have to keep waiting. I'm still waiting.
My ex obliviously attended all these tattoo sessions. He never asked why the sudden obsession. Or the extreme placement. He never asked if I was okay. In hindsight, he never did think about me in a meaningful way, did he?
I added the hearts and lavenders long after he was gone. I remember aromatherapy in the mental hospital. The smell of lavender oil brings me a lot of peace. These drawings are becoming spotty blotches. I guess I'm one of those people that are too broken to be beautiful. I used to think once I finished a sleeve I would like them more, but with my current financial situation and the nature of hand tattoos aging it probably won't happen. I'm probably stuck with this hand as it is. I think at this rate I'll die before I make peace with it. I consider it something to look forward to.
This obscure, elaborate, graphic suffering that was manicured just for me. Is this really the honest magic of the world? I wake up to my hand everyday and think about that.
I know I said I wouldn't bring up my personal affairs anymore, but this isn't really about him. It's unfortunately about me.
