“I hate it, I hate it, I hate it. I never thought I would feel this way and I know many people who have beautiful pieces of work on their body who would think I'm such a square for feeling this way, I feel like a square for feeling this way. I know it's pathetic and I can't shake it. Lying there looking at a single point, the face of some kind of melting miserable monster in traditional tattoo style on the wall next to the rest of the flash and prints. The face is white with streaks of blood on a teal background. I keep staring at it, hoping it will help me. Hoping I will be able to do some kind of visualization meditation in order to get through this. The tortured man in the print hates me and I hate him back. I wish this whole place would be engulfed in flames. I just want my endorphins to work, I cant even consider if i’ll like the work. On my ribs, my arms up, just open and vulnerable and stabbed with needles over and over again. It doesn’t feel like needles, it feels like knives. I feel like a small cotton ball being shot with a bullet. My body doesn’t know what a tattoo is, and my mind, my psyche, is starting to forget. I think I’m being attacked. What am I doing? Why did I come here? Why did I do this? I don’t hate myself! I just want to be safe. This place isn’t safe and I’m being stabbed in the ribs. The softest part of me, part of my breast, stabbed. Hours go by in continuous pain and stabbing, lying on my side, feeling unsafe. I just lie there. No smiles in the room. I’m not safe. A performance of stoicism. I stand up, look in the mirror, and a solid dark, large shape looking back at me. I don’t want this. $400. 

I can’t stop thinking about the pain I felt and this thing I'm left with for it. I can't stop thinking about the tortured monster on the wall, mocking me. I consented to this, but that doesn’t change my experience. The portion where I hated myself for the decision I made has passed, because there were several times I was going to reconsider, but I trusted blindly, this is something I will carry. I can’t change the past. How can I go through life not trusting people when there are so many people that you have to trust in order to simply exist? I have to trust my dentist, I have to trust the crossing guard, I have to trust my server, I have to trust the pharmacist, the bartender. I checked my sources, I scheduled a month ahead, and she prepared for the tattoo as I walked in. I gave her a month to brainstorm custom work that I had paid a deposit for. I didn’t get a quote, no photo, no ideas, sketches, or designs. No thought. I made the decision quickly because this is not my environment, this is not my studio, this is hers. I am not in my room where I can consider my options. I was out of my element.

I can’t eat. I don’t want to take care of myself, but I have to because I love myself. And because I love myself, I must push forward. I now have to nurture this thing on my ribs that I hate because it has to heal. I have to heal. My next steps are my health and removal.”

Sitting on her bed, she ended the paragraph with a period, smacked her laptop shut, stared at the wall, and sobbed quietly. The last time she was here, in this spot, was before the traumatic experience. The books she’s touched, the cold cup of tea from before she left. The shame. Writing about this experience provides some reprieve, planning the healing process and removal plan provides more. Now for the 7 stages of grief. Shock, denial, anger, bargaining, depression, reconstruction, and acceptance. She believed she was currently between depression and reconstruction. The day of her appointment she checked her horoscope and it said “Don’t: blind trust”. She knew how ironic it was, to look at this app religiously every morning just to ignore the most solid advice she could ever receive. She wondered if she could trust herself.