No, of course not this kind. Since Thanksgiving or early December, I've been pondering some permanent ink on my inner arm, nearer the elbow. It would be small and something nearer to skin tone. I had planned for it to be there for me to see and those to whom I choose to reveal it.
But then earlier this week, I saw where Saturday, 4/16 is #ProjectSemicolon Day. And that's exactly the tattoo I had planned to get.... You see, this year marks the 25th anniversary of my own semicolon story. Funny, I don't remember the actual date. Time didn't exactly have much of an impact on me in those moments. I know it was shortly before spring break so I was thinking late February. Originally I had thought the date might have been 2/22/91 but a perusal of the 1991 calendar showed me that was a Friday. I know this event happened on Wednesday -- that much I recall -- because I couldn't call my parents as they were at church. Funny... The day I was going to pick as my commemoration date ends up being the date we took my mom to the hospital this year. Eerie.
Anyway, the short of the story is that I was trying to figure out how to "accidentally" fall off my 6th floor dorm balcony in such a way that I could not survive. The reason now seems very silly and stupid, but when you're 21 and your whole life is DRAMA..... And you're sure that no one will ever possibly understand, no one will ever possibly respect you again, that you have TRULY disappointed everyone simply by breathing.... yeah. I was convinced this world did not need me sucking up oxygen that could be better used by another person who wasn't such a waste.
One person saw me sitting and staring into the black night and said, "Nettie? You ok?" I think he knew the answer was no, but I shrugged, a long shrug as if to say that I didn't even know the answer. So he asked again. Finally, after what felt an eternity, I rasped out a whispered "no." And when I tell you that I do not remember the next three days, it is because I truly do not. I remember vaguely turning the phone off, sleeping for about a twenty-hour stretch at one point. The next thing I remember is that following Sunday night, telling my BFF and her fiancé the story, the first people I told anything to, even before my family. Because, well, they are family, the ones who understood.
I never got around to falling off the balcony. I somehow managed to figure out a way to live and go through the struggle I faced. It was horrible having to rip off the mask I'd created for myself of always having it all together all the time. What a horrid façade to bear. But it beat dying over something so ridiculous as my image of perfection.
Seriously, if you've never read Dan Pearce's blogpost on A Disease Called Perfection, do so. You can find it at his site (singledadlaughing.com), and it is chillingly truthful.
It has only been in the last couple of years that I've learned that I've had anxiety and depression most of my life. I cannot remember a time when I was not plagued by the thought that I am not _____ enough. I also discovered shortly before Mom's illness that she too had generalized anxiety disorder. Wow, makes sense, huh?
So anyway, I plan to commemorate my Semicolon Story with a nice semicolon tattoo.... but instead of a plain dot on top, I found one that has wings -- a Phoenix , which is so perfect for me I can't even say. Phoenix, a symbol for Scorpios. That late winter night was only the first of many times I've risen from the ashes. It's quite fitting.
Of course, they say you can't stop at just one tat..... So if I do get another or two, first will be the Soundgarden symbol from King Animal. Then the stickman from Pearl Jam.....
No comments:
Post a Comment