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
Scrolling through Pinterest now, the tattoo displayed on the back of my left arm has made its way back to me again. The star-shaped cowboy and I were first introduced in 2020. It was hatred at first sight. Then, love after careful observation.
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.
V. NIGHTLY CHECKS
My youngest sister is an avid lover of Fanta, the orange fizzy drink. Asking for a little sip from her beloved drink warrants an angry refusal and a slap on the wrist. During one of my nightly cries, I could hear heavy footsteps towards the door. Quickly, I wiped my face and sat up.
I was being offered the precious drink. I tried to refuse but she just placed the drink on the bedside table, and left. When the door closed, I sobbed into the pillow. I did not believe I was deserving of that monumental act of kindness for I did not conceal the sickness better.
After awhile, a little hand turned the door handle and asked me if I was done. I promptly started drinking the Fanta while my sister stared at me, explaining how it made her feel better.
After that, two little fairies made a habit of sneakily opening the door until their bedtime. Mostly I would pretend to be asleep. When I would be caught crying, it would prompt them to scream that I was crying again to our mother. I realised then I was still able to feel embarrassed.
V. RETURN OF THE JEDI
Apart from the little game, I just scrolled through my phone. Sometimes I would read messages when curious, but I never had anything to say. The nightly sobbing show hadn’t started yet when I clocked into Pinterest.
From the front-page, a star-fish cowboy with a smiley face stared at me. I tapped on the picture and it was a tattoo. I lived in a pointless, senseless world, where someone could tattoo anything on their body for seemingly no good reason, including this little freak starfish.
I could be senseless and pointless too. I could walk into a tattoo parlour and leave with that freak permanently ingrained in me. I could be a new person alongside the cowboy. What a stupid thought.
My little sister ran into the room and stared at me. For the first time, the noise coming from me wasn’t a sob. Standing in the middle of the room, using the torchlight from our mother’s phone, she stared at me and started laughing too.
Running back to our mother’s room, I heard the announcement — “she is not crying, she’s laughing.” A moment later, my mother and sisters were surrounding me while I sat-up to show them the new friend.
No one in that room can confirm if they were laughing because they genuinely thought the stupidity of the cowboy was as funny as I thought it was or because they were relieved.
Slowly, the world around me started to open up again.
The cowboy and I started our new lives together in the sunroom of a beautiful house. Our officiant was a pretty lady I had met at a party I almost convinced myself I was too tired / it was too cold / I did not know enough people / there was some boy issue / I had nothing to wear / to go. Khira, the tattoo artist, needed someone to practice on, because she had ran out of skin space on her boyfriend. I had a lot of space on my skin so I offered it.
VI. PRINCE CHARMING
Often there is a preconceived notion that depression possess an overnight cure. In one fell swoop, one is transformed if simply the right books are read, or enough walks are completed, or enough yoga classes are attended. I found no magic potion.
While the cowboy did not bring me a cure, it did bring me a goodness and curiosity about the world that I had been robbed long before. It was enough; it was a reminder to be human again. The body, the bedsheets, the room, had all been given back to me.
I had something funny to share; something to say; questions to ask. I was wondering where the tattoo should go and if I should get more tattoos and if so, which ones. It was the first piece of a domino effect that is now a continuous zig-zag.
At eighteen, I was severely depressed.
I ate pints of Ben & Jerrys, I fell from lime bikes, I drank a lot, I went to the zoo, I spent too much money, I started playing Club Penguin, I fell in love, I fell out of love, I fell in love again, I posted stupid things, I wrote this, I met Kate, I changed majors three times, I went to Berghain, I moved states, I got my drivers licence. I eat vegetables and fruits (almost) daily now and I go to therapy and I take vitamins and prescription pills and I have a bedtime routine and a future.
At twenty-four, I haven’t been in years.