tattoos, men and resilience

I caught myself in the mirror, almost by surprise. The tattoo was so thin and so well placed, that it demanded a pause. So I paused and looked, at the silhouette of the Pomeranian that I had spent months looking for online. I took a second to appreciate the third and latest tattoo that I had used to decorate my skin, adding to the canvas of my story.

To the naked eye, it was a cute line drawing of a Pomeranian. It was fitting as I had a cute Pomeranian to go with it.

But to me, it was more. Just as my other tattoos were. It held a greater meaning. An almost secret message to myself.

It was a reminder, a reminder to be kinder to myself. It was a testament to my softer side, the side of me that loved a fluffy 5.3kg creature with every fibre of my being, the part of me that was often undermined by the more dominant logical side, the side of me that I had felt like I was losing and needed to commemorate.

The tattoo had been so painless — both in process and healing — that I sometimes forgot it was there. There was some poetry in how easy it was to eternalize my vulnerability, compared to my second tattoo, a testament to my fire, which had been to this day the most painful thing I’d endured — both during the tattooing and the endless months of healing after.

It’s almost as if it should be easier to be vulnerable than to put up a brave face. And yet, here I was, struggling. Not as much with the tattoo as in life.

I had coincidentally gotten it in October, meaning for the majority of the time, unless I was in the gym, on a yoga mat or in bed, it was covered with an oversized jumper. Also something I found poetic. Being vulnerable and asking for help were never my strong suits, a weakness that was now hindering my growth.

But perhaps the most poetic part of it was who I’d met on the day I got the tattoo.

A man. A man who much like the tattoo, was inviting me to be vulnerable and open. But one who had very little idea of how much I’d gone through to get the shell I used for protection.

I wish I could tell him.

I wish it was possible to grab someone’s hands, and as if in a movie, walk them through your stories, watch them watch you as you go through life, help them understand the parts of you that were harder to share.

If I could, I’d take him back to my school years, to the ups and downs of friendship I had in primary school and how my introversion had gotten me through. I’d take him to my middle school, the first point I distinctly remember being lied to and let him watch my disbelief in the action. I’d take him to my high school, let him watch how I wilted as my best friend moved away and the other stabbed me in the back.

I’d take him to my university town, where I fell in love for the first time. I’d let him watch the internal struggle that almost ripped me apart and the way I picked the pieces back up and sellotaped them together when it was all over.

I’d let him see how my friendships pulled me through that dark tunnel, and how that 6ft 5 Scottish man pulled me out of the darkness in the end.

And I’d take him to the moment I realized I was strong enough to let that man go to pursue my own dreams, and how I cried for days after he left.

But then I’d fast forward through the rest of the men. The many men I’d had to date to figure out who I was and what I wanted — a question still left unanswered. Because I wouldn’t want him to see how many times I’d gotten my hopes up and been disappointed. I wouldn’t want him to see how my trust in men had slowly been chipped at and left bare and broken. I wouldn’t want him to see how I’d been strung along for years, blind-sided and left broken hearted. I wouldn’t want him to see what I was willing to put up with for the tiny possibility of love that was never mine and then hate the part of me that held on to the irrational hope that maybe, something would change.

Because while trust was a 5 letter word in theory, to me, it was so much more. It was a constant back and forth that had led to endless overthinking and a never ending internal battle.

It was messages left on read, rants from men who excused their behaviour by saying they were prioritizing their careers, only to find a girlfriend the next month. It was being given empty promises that would be forgotten in the morning light. It was the I-told-you-sos and the I-didn’t-want-to-lead-you-ons.

But that wasn’t all that trust was.

It was also the friend that saved my birthday. And the best friend I can always turn to. And the non-official sister I’d never stop loving, no matter how much she complains about how small her flat is. And the parents who would always accept me. And the dog I trust to always come back, no matter how far away he runs.

Perhaps trust was a difficult thing for me, and vulnerability wasn’t natural to me. But resilience was.

Despite all my “drama”, I was still standing, possibly stronger than before. And despite all my heartbreak, a part of me believed in the inherent goodness of people. And despite my trust issues, I had branded myself with the ultimate symbol of trust to me.

Life had given me lemons, and I’d bought tequila and made margaritas.

Originally published at https://www.monologuesofalondongirl.com on December 8, 2020.