Tattoo Meaning, Heart Break

There are always signs pointing out a persons real nature. Some are big red flags blowing in a storm, and others are extremely small, but they are there. For people trapped in an abusive relationship of any kind (spouse, parent, friend, ect.). . . we are blind. Blind fools. Yeah, we see the signs but not really or worse yet we can justify them. It's how the abuser trains us, their victim.

We are told love is painful, and if something is good than is should hurt because that's life. We're told to be grateful for what little twisted compassion we get from our abuser because no one else would put up with us. They, the people that tear us down, are our only fans in the whole world, and because of that we see the signs—the warnings—and turn a blind eye. Because we believe the rules—situation—life is different for us. (Not in a good way).

What does this have to do with tattoos, right?

Well, now that I can think and see things more clearly than when I was growing up. I have noticed all the small signs of my mother's destructive personality I never took into account before. They are simple, small, and some would even call them petty things that have my mind in a tangle. Things that don't even make sense why they would be so important, and yet for me, looking back, they make my wounds deeper. I strike out at myself for being so damn blind, as most victims of abuse do.

We can't help it.

Most of us are told over and over again everything is our fault, and we believe it. Down to our last fiber, we believe everything is our fault. We—I'm—always in the wrong.

Knocked a drink over. . . I shouldn't have reached across the table.

Forgot to take out the trash. . . Fuck, why am I so damn lazy?

Meteors are pelting the Earth. . . Shit, I should have seen this coming!

Every little thing is my fault. So when I glance back into my past, or more accurately it jumps into my present, guilt is the strongest emotion I feel. Along with shame for thinking such a small moment in my past means as much as I feel it does.

Here is the small thing I'm ashamed I feel hurt over today!

Around the age of 33-35 Dani went through this mid-life thing. I wouldn't call it a crises so much as a, “it's all about me” vein streak. She started tanning everyday, got her nails and hair done every week, spent a good amount of money on looking all polished up. Everything from makeup to hiding the gray hairs that were starting. Every woman deserves to spend some time for herself, but Dani took it really far during this time period. I was with her on most of these pampering outings. Often I received a lot of back-handed compliments from Dani when the laddies at the shops commented about how much we looked a like. Dani always hated to hear how I looked like a younger version of her.

My therapist firmly believes Dani has been jealous of me from birth. I'm still trying to wrap my head around the idea of a mother feeling so competitive with her child they would destroy their self-worth, but back to the main point.

One summer day, Dani comes home after tanning and says, “Let's go, I'm going to get a tattoo.” Me being a teenager, was super excited. A tattoo was something I wanted for ages, sadly I couldn't talk her into letting me get one too. I mean I was only around 13 or 14 at the time, but it wasn't like I didn't try. No, instead she wanted me along so I could see how painful it was, and would never get one of my own.

I went along, of course. At the very least I got to see all the cool artwork in the shop. We arrived at the little place and that's were I found out she had already been in to talk to the tattoo artist an hour before. She stopped in on a whim and asked for something special to be designed for herself. Something that she could live with for the rest of her life, since she wanted to knock off tattoo on her to-do list. Settling on a theme she wouldn't regret later in life, Dani got a tattoo that represented her children.

Nice, right?

The artist put together a sample. The design was to be a teddy bear (for my brother who we called Chetty Bear), holding a rose (my sister was all about her middle name Rose), and behind all that was suppose to be a Dallas Cowboy star for me.

Alright, alright before you kick me out the door for my choice of football team let me explain. I never liked football or Dallas. Dani was and still is the Dallas fan. I simply went along with it. I requested Dallas jackets for Christmas and stuff so Dani could borrow them, and because I thought it made her like me. Excited about a football game, not me. While I threw myself into pretending to love Dallas at a young age, at this point in my life I was not a fan of football anymore and Dani knew that. Still, she thought I loved Dallas to my core, so there was a cheesy as hell Dallas star behind the teddy bear. Honestly, I believe she requested it for herself.

Well, the Dallas star was simply awful. Not the artist fault, it didn't fit with everything over all, so Dani cut it from the design and into the tattoo chair she went. She promised me that later, after this tattoo healed, she would go back and get a unicorn on her hip for me.

Yes, I loved unicorns. I still like them but I'm not insanely in love with them anymore. I'm more of a dragon person now.

Her promised thrilled me more than the lame Dallas star, and it fit me better. Dani even said I could help her pick the unicorn out. This kid right here was thrilled!

Only. . . she would never get that tattoo.

Nope, after she got the bear holding the rose she went on for months showing it off to friends, family, co-workers. Saying, “She got it for her children.” With a bright smile and deep joy she explained the meaning of the sweet little bear and the rose which made people go, “awwwww.” Followed by comments on what a good mother she was to go through the pain of a tattoo for her children.

Sometimes people would ask, “what about your oldest?”

For awhile Dani would tell them she was going back to get one for me, but that didn't last long. Instead the story changed, as it always does with her. One day she looked at the tattoo when someone asked what part of it was for me, and said the heart on the teddy bear represented me. The tiny tiny heart that was already part of the artwork was me.

Doesn't that say it all.

Me, the after thought. The part of the drawing you never noticed or cared about until someone pointed it out. A forced piece in a puzzle I don't belong in. That's what it feels like—that's what it felt like the first time she came up with the lie. I felt the hurt then, as a teenager, in the moment it happened but I let it go. I brushed off my intense disappointment and shook my head telling, myself it wasn't what it felt like. It wasn't Dani putting me off in the distant of the family, or shunning me. No, Dani wouldn't do that. She was my mother. She loved me. . . She's a good mom—the best mom ever!!

So then why did I mean so little to her? Why does it hurt so much if the abuse wasn't real?

Later, somehow, I mustered the courage to ask her why she lied about the heart inside the bear. Dani said, “oh honey, I can't go back and get another tattoo. It just hurts too much. You understand, right?”

Fuck, I hate that question/statement.

You understand?

Understanding. . . I hate that word with a passion. It was her weapon against me. To make sure I was complicit, and I was just that. . . understanding.

I realize it's a silly tattoo, some ink on skin, but what is symbolizes—what it means to her and people that see it—well, that makes it more. That tattoo is a slap in my face that I took with a bright smile. When I think about this small gesture—a simple tattoo—my heart breaks. The tears well up in my eyes, and I feel like a child left out in the cold. Discarded by the person they worshiped—begging to be loved, accepted—to be apart of the family I was born into, here I am. Still the outsider, and it's a feeling I can never get rid of.

It doesn't matter who welcomes me into a group, or how warm and loving the place is. The stigma of being an outcast among outcasts haunts me. It's the scars I wear and can never be free of. Thanks mom.

#tattoos #outcast #victims #warningsigns #littlethingsmatter

~Jax~