THROWBACK ESSAY: Why I got the word "open" tattooed on my back
A love letter to my first tattoo
I’ve always thought that I wasn’t a tattoo person; there’s never been a single image I felt I must have on my body. But when my friend Sheela and a bunch of other cool ladies I know made plans to get tattoos while we were all in Chicago, I decided I wanted in on the action. I still couldn’t come up with an image that worked for me, until I realized that I’m not a visual person so much a word person. As a writer, words are what matter most to me; I stay up late at night reading, not watching TV. I remember quotes and song lyrics more than I remember movie scenes.
Once I decided I wanted a word, the one that came to mind was “open.” I tend to be extremely pessimistic, and when something goes wrong in my life, instead of trying to fix it or make it better, I assume there’s something wrong with me and that’s why the problem is occurring. This is especially the case with relationships. If someone breaks up with me, as happened in May, or just decides to stop talking to me altogether, I wonder not only what I did to cause them to not want me anymore, but I assume that other people I might date will also treat me that way. It’s a vicious cycle, and one I’d like to break.
That’s not fair to someone new I might meet, and I can’t judge person B for person A’s actions. The bottom line is I want to have an open mind and an open heart; that doesn’t mean I have to ignore the pain of those breakups, but that I can’t let them weigh me down and prevent me from being open to new possibilities. I yearn to be more of the world and less trapped in my often self-defeating mind. “Open” seemed like a hopeful, celebratory word.
I asked around and Twelve 28 Tattoo in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, within walking distance of my apartment, was recommended. I told my tattoo artist, Joy Rumore, I wanted “open” in script in dark purple, and she showed me a few designs. I chose my favorite, and on the appointed day, sat wearing a sweater backwards, leaving my back clear. “You have two jobs: to stay still and to breathe,” she told me. As it turns out, the latter was more challenging. I clutched a hardcover book in my lap, listening to the loud buzzing of the needle in my ear, biting my lip and trying not to whimper. About halfway through, I started to read the novel I was holding, and found myself able to get through it more easily (I was also offered the option of watching a movie on the TV in front of me).
Did it hurt? This is a question I supposed everyone with a tattoo gets asked, and my answer is: yes, but not exactly how I’d expected.
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