The ongoing obsession I have with tattooing myself is not just skin deep, the most recent tattoo I got was a long time coming.
The one before that? I still haven’t photographed. It’s not finished, just the beginning of something bigger – in so many ways. I wish I was the kind of person who could easily tell-all in person. You guys are super curious about my tattoos (as I am about anyone’s I see, too) and it’s just hard for me to be as open in person as I am in writing.
This is probably the most surprising thing about me, if we haven’t met yet: I am very shy. I am always raw, but very shy. And I do know how to let it go and have fun, but mostly I’m inside myself and thinking.
I’m really good at silence – terrible at being still. I’m a beautiful mess, mostly, and I find it odd (?) that I have a disease that literally requires structure and routine. Getting on with it after the diagnosis is going well. I stayed at the feet of that word for a good 24 hours, raking it over me and worrying. And now I’m kneeling there; asphalt digging in my knees, crushing dandelions as I wait … and soon I’m going to get up and move forward.
The finality of this diagnosis is this: I should not have more children. I *can’t* have more children, I *won’t* have more children. And although we were well on our way to that decision, we were still hoping and maybe dreaming about some day.
Shit is hitting the fan all around me – in almost every part of my life. I am growing and making decisions to take better care of myself and then decisions are being made for me, for my health, and I’m wading my way through this structure of a life.
Still being quiet but refusing to stand still. Instead I’m dancing wildly in circles, splattering paint all over my body, and bleeding every single day. I’m learning that the mess I’m making isn’t wrong, it’s the deepest part of me trying to come forward and carry me through.
Every once in a while I need a permanent marker to make me believe it, too.