kitten and boo boo

’ve lived in the dirtiest city for the past 13 years, full of bullshit and 3am pizza spots that only take cash and don’t deliver. Today I walked to the gas station and pharmacy in my new small country town and I was fucking disgusted. I am heavily tattooed and scarred and I don’t like to hide my scars in general- they are a part of me like the rest of my skin. Are they ugly as fuck? I guess so, some days I think so. Are they brutal and obviously self inflicted? Of course. But I do not deserve stares or to have to cover in the extreme heat. I try to be nice, friendly, sociable. I try to do my makeup just right and my hair real cute and not look like the feral thing that I am. And today when I didn’t cover my arms I failed. When I decided to walk down this country road to get a pack of bogies and a Pepsi, a card for my boyfriend to celebrate our new home I was fucking stared at like I was a severe burn victim. Do I have fresh and healing cuts and burns on my arms? Yes. Do I still deserve dignity? Yes. The cashiers just stare at my arms like I’m from some other fucking place, which essentially I am, but still I want to make a good impression while not sweating to death at the same time. My arms (and the majority of my body) are covered in black ink tattoos and very obvious self harm scars. I cut, I burn, I pick. I’ve done it over and over so many times in the same places on my arms that I look like an accident victim I guess, or fucking terrifying which at this moment in time wouldn’t bother me. I don’t stare at people unless they are obviously high or drunk or really attractive. I don’t care about your fucking scars. I don’t care about your tattoos, though mine are probably cooler. When I moved out here I made an effort to cover my arms because those are where the most current damage is. But today it was fucking hot as balls and I just wanted to take a walk and not sweat to death any more than I already would be. The fact that people don’t even try not to stare is fucking astounding. And yes, I’ve got tattoos all over my body, hands and chest and inner lip included. But that’s not what causes the stares. It’s the collateral damage of the borderline personality disorder I did not choose to have, the collateral damage of all the trauma I did not choose to endure. Before this I lived in a few small towns and it’s always the same. You become notorious. Because I don’t hide it, because I will not be ashamed. Because yes I am scared but I am still pretty and sexy and cute and a fucking person. In this town it seems like no one smokes- no one walks anywhere except for exercise and as a city dwelling non-driver for the majority of my adult like walking is my option if my boyfriend doesn’t want to drag my ass around. No one even yields to let you cross the fucking street. Yeah, I kinda shake my ass and hips while I walk, and yes today I wasn’t covered in the requisite long sleeves, but it’s mid summer in CT and it’s hot. And I’m tired of sweating. In the cities, people don’t give a fuck. They might comment on a particularly brutal scar on my arm while fucked up but they didn’t stare because of my scars. I want every person with scars they have to hide to know I fucking see you, and your skin is valid, and you are valid and you are enough and fuck them. In these small towns I’m an oddity. Curvy with big makeup and hair, tattoos dripping off my skin, skin with marks like kris cross railroad tracks all up and down, with big welts from healed second degree burns I inflicted on myself. With fresh and healing cigarette burns I’m sure they’ll recount as hideous or shocking or disgusting over their dinner tables of asparagus and grilled marinated chicken breast. Don’t get me wrong I love living here but I don’t love feeling like I’m living in hiding while out in public. Always aware of how high my sleeves have rolled up, or of the heat. The heat is what really kills. The stares I can deal with. As a person with tattoos on not only my arms and chest but hands I know I am an uncommon animal here, I am shocking. My tattoos are not easily identifiable at first glance because of their positioning and size. Because of how I chose to adorn my body. But the scars, while yes I created them I did not choose. Who in their right mind chooses holding a lighter directly to their flesh just to hear the crackling which gives a brief moment of reprieve? Who chooses to slice themselves to the point of disfiguration and embarrassment? I chose to harm myself, I didn’t choose to live with the stares and disdain from other people who have no business getting involved with passing judgment on my body. I don’t really care if you’re fat or brown or ugly or white or stupid or fucking covered in ink. I don’t care if you show who you are to the world without apology. But apparently they do. I’ve gone on this rant before, but usually drunk or high or in a moment of active self harm. In this exact moment I don’t want to harm myself, but I do want to feel safe in my own body while out alone. I saw how the men stared, trick they were thinking, who the fuck is she? How much? And the women are even worse, who they also wonder who the fuck does she think she is I see their eyes pass over my arms and my tattoos and just look at me with utter disgust. I am nice, I am pleasant. I am a bad person whose trying to be good. The small town I lived in before, I became almost notorious. The girl with the big earrings and cut up body who will come into your shop or cafe reeking of gin, the girl who didn’t cover what she was supposed to. And now I’m really fucking conflicted. Because I feel like people recognize me now at the spots I’ve been frequenting, and I feel like with the long sleeves I make less of a bad impression. My boyfriend has said he’d rather I cover out here, which I get- I mean who would want to walk around with something like me hanging off their arm? But still, I’m his and it hurt and I’d never ask the same. I am not ashamed of him, of his body. I would never ask him to endure sweating in the summer heat, the sweat pouring down his forehead as he tried to stay concealed. He’s not the first partner to ask me to cover, my family also asks as well. Friends ask why I have to throw them in people’s faces. And I want to scream at the top of my fucking voice it’s because it hurts and I want someone to acknowledge that they’re hurting too just like me and to know that imperfect skin is still perfect.

I’m not advocating for the practice of self harm- if anything don’t fucking start because you’ll find yourself at 38 burning cigarette circles into your forearm which will hurt like a motherfucker and be impossible to ever disguise without clothing or inventive tattoos. I am advocating for the practice of harm reduction if you do end up doing it and not necessarily self love in regards to your scars but not shame. What this is is not shameful, it is not wrong or dirty or crazy or fucked up. It is a desperate attempt to cope with that which feels UN-copable at the time. I don’t say go and cut yourself in the street in front of children, but also don’t let other grown adults with problems of their own (possibly far more “embarrassing”) to make you feel small. When you are visibly different in any way you are always hyper aware of everything and everyone around you. Of every glance and every side eye not meant for you that you interpret as your own moral failing. I am not ashamed that this is the only way I felt I had to cope at the time. That my coping leaves scars on my arms while yours might scar your liver or your wife’s emotional well being. We don’t choose to walk around looking like accidents, but there’s a cost and this is the cost- paid in raised pink and white flesh.

I want my scars to be fully covered in tattoos, fucking cool sleeves that people stare at in awe rather than disgust but that’s expensive and not an option while the most recent wounds are still healing. I planned the sleeve themes, thought about how scared flesh will feel different being tattooed over than regular skin. I’ve considered that they might end up even more fucked up than the original scaring and then what do I do? Well, at that point I guess I just say fuck it. I think the reason they scare people is because seeing any extreme emotional vulnerability on another person makes everyone involved feel vulnerable. I think people are scared of anything perceived as crazy or other or feral. I keep using that word but sometimes I literally feel like a fucking wild animal walking around with mange and maggots dripping off my skin, judging by the level of disgust some people exhibit.