BAD TATTOO
My first tattoo was a star-shaped cowboy with a little hat, lasso and smiley face I found on pinterest.
My first tattoo was a star-shaped cowboy with a little hat, lasso and smiley face I found on pinterest.
Words by Lara Braga
I was eighteen and rented a room in a share house with two boys, and while we lived in cordial harmony, we were never able to grow into good friends, or even, friends. Instead of the covid lockdown bringing us closer, it pulled us apart into our little worlds and rooms.
The house was too hot during summer, too cold during winter. The mattress was brand new and the walls were bare and all the kitchen utensils were generic anko. It belonged to no one.
I. QUIET, THE WINTER HARBOR
It was during the winter break from university that my depression reached its monumental peak. I had no tasks; no assignments; no virtual commitments. It was so easy to slip away from any connection to the real world and to slowly forget what made one human. If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?
With no camera to see me, and no sense of urgency needed, I had plenty of time to immerse into the habit of self-neglect. The hardest thing to do is abandon oneself. After I was able to do that, deserting anyone and anything came easily to me.
I avoided calls, text messages, group chats, the mirror, the kitchen, the shower. I avoided books, movies, music. The windows were shut and the blinds were closed. I only allowed myself to watch the same TV show on repeat and lay on the floor.
II. DO I STINK?
I was not completely apathetic. I could understand feelings of disgust when I touched my oily hair or hunger cues but none of it was enough to trigger any counter-reaction. When I did shower, it had to be very quickly.
Any vanity within me was stripped raw. I was condemned to maintain a foreign vessel. I kept fantasising about becoming a small, wounded animal resting on a warm blanket with a bowl of water and oats nearby. Instead, I kept waking up to find the body underneath the blankets.
III. SOCIAL BUBBLE
The government created social bubbles, allowing households to nominate other households to socialise with. My mother nominated me as part of her social bubble. As the depression worsened, so did memory. I am sure I tried to refuse it; exchanging human connection for the privacy to reach the bottom peacefully.
My mother is self-contained to the boundaries of her suburb, no driving went beyond that. I was mean — if you want me, come get me. Between our houses, there were highways and multi-lanes and a forty minute trajectory. I thought that would be enough to keep my mother at bay. The hands on the wheel were sweaty and shaky, but she was still outside my house for pick-up.
IV. SORRY INSTEAD
Perhaps I was there for a week; a month; a year. I had no perception of time anymore, the days were all mushed. I mostly just slept on my old mattress, rarely felt hungry, and rarely spoke. I started to suspect my mother might throw a bucket of water with soap in my direction soon enough so I had to shower more often.
But instead of improving, the depression was gifting me a new sense of freedom. I was a hopeless case, there was no way out for me and no way in for anyone. Most nights, I would fall asleep and wake up crying; there was a permnent rash near my cheeks.
My sisters were so young then, around three and eight years old. The only energy I had was purely used to pretend to be well and happy in their presence. Yet, they knew something was not quite right, and of course they did. Children are perceptive and curious, and lucky for me, my sisters were also kind.