Leather Women

Ever since I can remember I’ve felt chronic dissatisfaction with ordinary. I think being average is something that I fear more than being singled out or ridiculed. Perhaps that is why instead of shedding the skin and identity I loathed so much, I submerged it in sprawling intricacies. Illustrations, depictions of the damaged soul inside. Many view it as art and just as many deem it as constructive self harm. I have come to recognize it as my evolution, just like an animal surviving in the wild. I changed my colors, distorted my appearance to mask the fact that I am vulnerable. I have many tattoos, some that cost several hundreds of dollars and quite a few hours of my life. Despite the fact the I love them with a fiery passion, they are too easy. I know because I’ve done 90% of my piercings and tattoos myself. I process pain better than most, sometimes I feel like it’s my biggest motivator. If it’s not hurting, did I do enough and did I do it right? The most extensive, grueling, painful and rewarding body modification I’ve subjected my body to is lobe stretching. Also known as ear gauging, it requires intense patience, a high pain tolerance and delicate mindfulness. It’s risky, it is almost unbearably nagging, the way it aches and burns. Because of my sensitive skin, I worried that I’d have to cut my losses. But my lobes and I have been together for almost 8 years now. They have long since healed and soon I will be due to size up. Just as one finishes a career goal to set a higher goal, my projection for my lobe size has increased exponentially over the years. I remember promising my mother I wouldn’t stretch them past the circumference of a number two pencil. As far as I know she’s forgiven me for not committing to that. I am at 1 ¼ inches, I am not done and this is the story of the artful self mutilation I am most proud of.

A few months after my sixteenth birthday I lost my second mother and greatest confidant, my grandmother. She was the center of our universe, she was the sun that all of the other members of the family revolved around. She was all knowing in my eyes, the wisest of the wise even though she never even finished the ninth grade. She was a renaissance woman, she could do just about anything on her own and she was an unstoppable force. An immovable, passionate, leather skinned woman of many abilities. She taught me so many things that I wish I could thank her for now. She showed me the best music and the best movies. She instilled in me this strength that I can only describe as spiritually astute. For nearly the entirety of my childhood I experienced mind altering emotional and physical abuse. At home, the enemy dictated the household and at school the enemy was essentially everyone who wasn’t me. Eventually I became my own enemy. There was one safe place… with my grandmother. I sought asylum with her as often as I could and developed thought processes and habits that most children don’t. I grew up fast, I grew up angry due to trauma. I still am, more so since I lost the person that motivated me to be better. When I lost her, I lost a lot of faith in myself. She was my biggest fan, my first inspiration. Some kids go to church or play sports, I would sit at my grandmother’s table, sipping black tea and listening to her stories of “back then.” Without my grandmother, I seriously believe that I would not be here today. She fed my imagination in a way that my mother could not. She taught me about hard work and responsibility. She demonstrated empathy and unconditional love that I hadn’t known much of having grown up with an abusive step parent. A shadow that still looms over me long after his dismissal from my life. When my grandmother passed, it seemed as though the world was at it’s end. Even the air didn’t feel the same in my lungs. The sky dulled a shade the moment she drew her last breath and the birds seem to sing melancholy songs of remembrance. Seeing her cold, lifeless corpse outstretched and dangling off her bed faithfully clinging to her oxygen mask… a part of me died with her. I delivered the eulogy at her funeral among a somber lake of salty tears and mournful wails. In the viewing I could hardly recognize her. There was no life, it was a shell. It didn’t seem fair, how unsatisfying of a farewell. Deep down I was inconsolable by a soulless statue that resembled a woman who was once so full of light. The absence of the light has impacted the way in which I’ve matured.

Before my grandmother passed, the most unconventional body modification I had was an industrial cartilage piercing. One day while going through my grandmother’s things after her passing, I came across a very curious pair of earrings. At first I was perplexed as to what they were and how they were used. Eventually after a little research I came to an interesting conclusion, they were wooden spiral ear tapers. I held on to them for a few months before I got the courage to begin the process. I’d only ever seen one person with stretched ears before in my town. I was maybe ten years old and I saw this young man with the biggest hoop earrings. Only, they weren’t hoop earrings, when I got closer I was appalled. Why would someone do that to themselves? I racked my brain then and now I understand maybe more than that young man did. It’s a test of patience and endurance. A measure of consistency and devotion. As someone who is constantly trying new things and going through phases it’s difficult for me to marry myself to hobbies. Stretching my ears was the catalyst that initiated a loyalty in me to translating my pain into something that isn’t actual self inflicted damage. I had finally found an outlet that drew focus away from harming myself and in turn I finally began to develop an image of the person I wanted to be. I never felt that kind of relief before, the security and transparency of feeling at home in the body you wished so desperately to escape. Even now, I still feel unwelcome in this skin but it takes years of updating a fixer-upper before you can label it your dream home. I’m just immaculate architecture, in progress. The foundation has been laid but the walls are partially naked as of yet, not all of the fixtures have been mounted and the foyer sure needs redecorating.

I’ve struggled with greater demons since the dispersal of my primary abuser and the death of my grandmother. I have found myself leaning further and further over the edge of a steep addiction. Every time I lose focus on the things that help me express unhealthy emotions in a safe and fruitful manner, I turn to more sinister means. Before I was even born, I lost a grandparent to Cirrhosis of the liver. Shortly after my birth, my father was banished from my life due to his dangerous alcohol abuse. Not long after that I lost my other grandfather to throat cancer caused by excessive alcohol and cigarette consumption. All three of these men were severe alcoholics whose lives were immensely affected if not ruined by alcohol. I am slowly but surely repeating history if I do not change my ways. I have lost a lot these past few years; beloved pets, close friends, girlfriends, jobs and slivers of my mental stability. All of which have driven me to alcohol abuse. Which has worsened to a worrisome level. My financial and emotional state are parallel to each other in a degree, in a negative way. In addition to that, I’ve recently been diagnosed with some troubling and expensive health issues that are taking a large toll on me. I was doing well for a fraction of of time, I was feeling hopeful and confident. Something changed, I started to devolve into a physically and mentally ill person. Despite all of this, I still dream of a life where I’ll find a cutout in the shape of me where I’ll fit in comfortably. I tell the reflection of the girl I designed I made her this way because she’s as unique on the outside as she she is underneath. That way finding people with pure intentions is simplified. Many people take full advantage of the opportunity to judge me based on my appearance. I’m not conventionally beautiful to the majority of my surrounding demographic. I’ve heard worse things from grown adults than I’ve ever heard uttered by a teenage bully. I’ve been called ugly, a drug addict, an eyesore, jailbird and so on. These are people who don’t even know my name let alone what I enjoy doing in my free time. These are the people who told us as children; “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at.” Yet, every time one of these “respectable” elders has something pungent to say they let dribble on out as easy as a compliment. In addition to that, my looks seem to provoke more sexual comments from male patrons. It’s as though body modification is somehow synonymous with promiscuity when you are a female. If I was a man, I would be treated with more respect looking the way I do, I know that factually because I have been discriminated against while my heavily modified male counterparts are viewed as upstanding. In lieu of regret, I feel empowered. Insults are dripping off my back like raindrops on a windshield. I decide what penetrates my skin, I know these people try to hurt me because they fear me. I intimidate them and that is the closest I can get to respect for the time being. When all I have to do is exist to anger some bigot, I know my grandmother would approve.

These past few years have been psychologically apocalyptic, to say the least. In so many ways they’ve torn me apart the way rushing water erodes soil. After I graduated high school I attended community college just to appease my mother and exchange money and intellectual labor for a piece of paper as proof of worth. I met a few toxic people and I met a few “chicken soup for the soul” type of people. One of those people I communicate with often, one of them has left us all behind. Yes, I knew him for maybe a year but I grew to care for him quite a lot. When I found out he had passed from an overdose, alone for that matter, I entered a new dark period in my life. I saw him in everything, in animals, in dreams and in crowds. I am convinced that he was and may still be with me. I have a tattoo to commemorate him, because we had talked about getting matching tattoos. The chamce was missed due to his passing. I blamed myself for not saving him, for not getting down in the pit with him and dragging him out myself. I felt like a useless lifeguard standing on the beach watching a person drown while frozen in panic. Eventually I realized that I wasn’t the lifeguard, I was the person who risked drowning to save him, but as I swam out his head disappeared under water. Months swam by with a liquid like flow before the uneasiness of survivors guilt finally faded. I felt as though someone had poured time itself back and forth between two glasses. Out of pity I began to hang out with one of my deceased friend’s close pals despite the fact that he had warned me not to befriend this person. I thought I was honoring my friend but in all actuality I was unknowingly allowing a toxic person control in my life. This person fed off of me for years, called me names, made snide comments about my clothes and my body, relentlessly sexually harassed me and much worse. He was mean to my pets, rude to my mother, disgusting towards my partners and above all addicted to tearing me down. Not too long ago I cut ties with this person and a considerable amount of weight just slid off of me like all it needed was a little grease. Experiences like these pressed me to keep stretching and inking. Adding nothing quarter inch in circumference to my lobes like the rings on a tree form over years, every size up marking a “year” in the life.

I met my first serious girlfriend after a debilitating surgery that required a lot of assistance and constant use of narcotics. One after my cast had been removed, I got in my Dodge Stratus, appropriately named Helga Klunkernoff Overheatovich and headed to the grocery store. For whatever reason I believed that a lemon was worth driving my car with cracked head gaskets, rapidly evaporating coolant and a tendency to shut down from overheating in 6 inches of fresh, wet snow. Halfway to my destination I had decided against proceeding into town because of how poor the road conditions had become. On my way home I made a fateful decision to take the county route home that led me up the steepest side of my road. A steep, sloping, murderous hill that wouldn’t hesitate to tear you off the off if you dare to go over 30 miles per hour while descending it. Up the cursed beastly dirt clod was and still is a whole other story. Good brakes for the way down are imperative, a reliable engine and rigid tires for the ascent a must even more so when the unstable rubble in covered with slick snow and icy slush. As I struggled up the hill, Helga sputtering and shrieking, just inches from a plateau, Helga was comatose. Enshrouded in darkness and the skin ripping chill of January air my car started to roll backwards. I frantically sought the brakes which were at this point, as useless as my mangled foot. Helga gained speed and I gripped my steering wheel ready to reunite with my grandmother. For a fragment of time Helga and I, we were flying. When I felt the car lift off the ground I knew I was surely going to die. Then, as suddenly as Helga had closed her eyes, her corpse finally came to rest in a drainage ditch at the foot of the hill. Sandwiched between a steep embankment and sluice pipe gushing gallons of ice cold water. I was at most a mile from my home, -17 degrees, near midnight, no cell service and one good foot in six inches of unforgiving New York precipitation. I clamored clumsily in a blind panic, splashing through the water spurting out under my totaled car, out of the hole just long enough to rustle up a bar of service. The air was so cold I couldn’t bare the exposure. I was not only soaked with water but wearing a measly pleather jacket and jeans, my booted foot, covered by nothing a but a layer of spandex beneath the dampened fleece of my surgical boot. I feared the loss of my rapidly numbing appendage, so I stayed in my car. It took over 2 hours to find help. It took help almost an hour to find me because I was essentially underground because of how deep the ditch was. I was lucky to have survived, I had made peace with dying that night, I was ready. After that I had a whirlwind affair with my first girlfriend who preferred several lovers simultaneously. Which took it’s toll on my mental health but I am much wiser for it. Whilst the years passed, tragedy came, lovers went and opportunities seemed to cease. I stayed working in retail, slowly embellishing my body with larger ears, bolder piercings and unique ink. Another ring in my tree trunk.

I was relentlessly bullied by my manager at my previous job for my appearance. Eventually she quit and the bullying continued through customers which increasingly escalated until I had nervous breakdown and had to leave my job of nearly 4 years. At the time I was in a very serious relationship with a very special woman. She had grown up very religious and very secluded. Raised with nine siblings she was traumatized by her religion and the lack of attention she received. She was unbelievably talented, mature and possessed a kindness about her that impressed me. I fell for her immediately and in that time, neglected to notice that I stopped stretching my ears, I stopped getting new tattoos, I stopped writing and music projects. I was so enveloped in her, in my job and in every little detail of her life. It hurt us both irreparably, two very damaged people just breeding more illness. It was the slowest, most agonizing separation. The worst pain I’ve ever felt, the toxicity of my emotional state poisoned her love for me which soon faded and died. It was the most horrific thing to see, a nightmare unfolding in her eyes. I could feel the chill her sighs, the emptiness in a kiss, the silence that makes you feel like you’re being flayed from the scalp down. I didn’t realize what was so wrong, I was just lost in my own trauma, blind to her pain while completely aware of it at the same time. I kept myself busy with foolish, insignificant habits to distract myself from the inevitable. I think about her every day still, even though we hurt each other I still love her so much that I can hardly cope without her. I feel as though I’m suspended in a purgatory, I still don’t feel that I’ve fully processed it yet and it’s been 6 months since we last spoke. The good that has come from it: I am realizing what is of true importance to me. She was number one and now that she’s gone I have to focus on myself. It’s bittersweet but it’s vital that I attempt to heal myself. There is so much I want to do, so much I have yet to accomplish. I haven’t stretched my ears as of late but I plan to when I can afford it again. Right now I’m not only living to honor my grandmother or my ex-lover or even my dead college friend. I’m living for me, for the first time. I’m doing things for me and focusing on my goals instead of partying and worrying about girls. Two things that have been very detrimental to my focus, take my word for it. I never saw myself living this long, because of how poor my mental condition was growing up. I expected to succumb to the feelings of fear, exhaustion and swelling depression long before I'd ever have to make plans for my future. Now I live for art, I live for the joy of creation. What I create on myself, within myself and expel from myself is what fuels me to continue living in a dimension where I eternally feel out of place.

Every event in my life, whether it be positive or negative, births an insatiable necessity to inflict fresh pain in a way that is valuable. A look in the mirror can be enough to spark a crusade to acquire more. The discontent I feel for my appearance was fabricated through years of bullying and abuse. Now I use body art to bury the person I used to be, in a desperate effort to find some peace in this vessel. I have so many physical scars but the amount pales in comparison to the quantity of mental wounds. I can cover physical inadequacies, it’s impossible for me to shroud my internal flaws. I’m doing my best to work with what’s tangible, the things I can control to cure something that can’t be touched or molded. Sometimes I pray for wellness, I don’t believe in God but I beg just the same for a healthy mind. But then, would I be me? I’ve never known a clear mind, I was born with a mass of tangled headphones for a brain. If I were to describe to someone what it’s like inside my head, I’d say think of of a police scanner with Asperger's. Continuously mumbling, blurting and shrieking random and irrelevant information at different frequencies. A cacophony of unpleasant thoughts and anxieties swirling around like a jetty in a lake surrounding a swimmer and dragging them down. Most times the only way to silence the static is to drown out the sound with a tattoo machine. Before I could get tattoos I stretched my ears. Before that I harmed myself in secrecy with blades and burns, it was a shameful affliction. I knew it was bad but I needed so desperately to feel something other than the numbness and turmoil inside. There were moments where I actually believed in it’s healing power but it was something I convinced myself of to justify what I was doing. Consequently I replaced meaningless self injury with purposeful pain release. The thought of what they would represent excited and calmed me simultaneously. It gave me a sense of identity that I so longed for. I spent a lot of time alone, by choice. I dreamed of a tribe of like minded people I would find this way. It made me feel visible, after years of feeling forgotten and overlooked when I was the focus of the hostility of my peers. In my mind, these remodelings increased my worth when I felt less than. My ears are a symbol of my wisdom, strength and resilience. They are proof that in a moment of agony and confusion that I have the power to control how that energy is expressed. I survived a lot of evil, vindictive people and most importantly, I survived myself.

I’m not sure if my transformation will ever be complete. I think that’s part of the beauty and mystery of it. It’s infinite, permanent... immortal. Body modifications have the power to change you not only in a physical manner but in a spiritual one. They can humble you, deepen your soul and nurture your self esteem. I found my identity in them. I found a disguise that gave me enough confidence not to care what other people think. I traded self harm for therapeutic, pain induced creativity. I don’t harm myself with the intention of harming myself anymore, unless you consider the alcohol abuse. My story is about independently overcoming obstacles with the help of physical reminders of trauma. Sometimes scars tell stories just like tattoos, stretched ears or hoops embedded in skin. I have all of the above, with pride and shame. I wear my heart on my skin. I believe that makes me strong, knowing I’ll be shunned for it and doing it anyway because it’s what I love. No matter what anyone says, I’m proud of me. I’m a goddamn warrior. I could write a book on the horror I’ve seen and here I am. I may not be successful as defined by most but I’m finally learning how to give myself credit. I am finally taking the time to introduce me to myself again. Just like my years long dedication to my lobes, I now need to focus with similar intensity on my emotional well being. I started a broken child; disoriented, angry and hidden. I am now a young adult who is still all of those things but with less indiscipline. I have faith that body modification has definitely aided in releasing some of that repressed steam. One day I aspire to find inner and outer peace with the help of such adjustments to my being. I have the power to pause lives just by entering a room, I command more attention than I intend to. At times crowds of eyes invite feelings of anxiety and claustrophobia. Facial expressions so disdainful they seem to claw at me, silently assaulting me. Further proving that I am a pariah, an outcast in a community full of people I don’t want to belong to. So, I am almost unaffected. Although I can’t help but feel alienated. I attempt to find comfort in the idea that one day I will be surrounded by droves of people who accept me. The bigoted denizens of my hometown are set in a concrete foundation of traditionalism that I will never be able to dismantle. I refuse to be a product on the assembly line. I will not assimilate and I most definitely will not obey the ideals of others. Some say that makes me a rebel, I say it makes me an individual.

In conclusion, don’t judge a book by it’s cover. One day, you may see a girl like me out in the street, at a concert or in a mall. Before you judge her, remember my words. Remember my story and my pain. Visualize my skin as my confessional, my memoir, a two way mirror into my soul. Contrary to popular belief; we’re loving, empathetic, genuine people. Just like anybody else we have secrets, weaknesses, and vices but unlike everyone else we display them. We wear them like costumes, like sports memorabilia we don them to show others what we represent. Just like any other group of people, modified people are surrounded by stigma. Negative, ignorant assumptions on the basis of a need to control what other people do with their bodies. Especially when it comes to women who dictate ownership over their own bodies without regard or consideration for outside input. I have heard every type of attempt to discourage the stretching, the tattoos and the piercings. People have said some truly twisted things to me that have taught me so much about humanity. My grandmother inspired to me to to walk this path and I discern that in some way this was a lesson she meant to teach me. To keep me humble, to keep me strong and to encourage me to keep doing the opposite of what the sheep are doing. As black as a sheep I am, I have seen the light. I wear a wolf skin to protect myself from wolves and sheep alike. I see myself as somewhere in between, in a societal limbo, not belonging to either side. Not belonging anywhere in particular really. Perhaps in search of a place that rather, belongs to me.

I could ramble on forever about the events leading up to me looking like I front a metal band. It is something I've researched thoroughly and have written countless papers on. Now I get to implicate my own life experiences in relation to a subculture that I have fallen mercilessly in love with. This opportunity is causing an eruption of inspiration that boasts a half life of at least 80 years. My body is a scrapbook, a museum, a collage of my pain and hope for what is yet to come for me. I suppose I felt so many powerful emotions for so long that they trickled and seeped out for everyone to see. My ears and my skin are my journey. I choose the destination and all of the stops along the way. I lived in hiding for so long that some subterranean fragment of myself erupted from within me and gasped for air at the surface. A being that has become accustomed to my exterior. When I was thirteen years old, I realized with perfect clarity for the first time that the traditional life for the women in my family was not for me. Because of that I am somehow behind in my life because it is taking me longer to adapt to a life that is intrinsically more difficult. Over five years had passed since this life altering discovery before I mustered the courage to tell the truth. I came out to my mother the night before my last day of high school. It was the most freeing feeling. In fact, I got my first tattoo before I ever came clean about being a lesbian. I endured so many feelings of despair and insufficiency, I isolated myself so I didn’t have to confront that secret part of me. I kept to myself for the most part, I kept at stretching my ears while also piercing and painting my flesh in tandem. I have most recently determined that what is harder than my body modification journey is deciding what part is most influential and beloved. I love all of my pieces but my ears were and still are the tenderest and most thoughtful labor. It was the most exhaustive effort which became the most cherished of my physical milestones. My only regret regarding my body modifications is not possessing the ability to share them with my grandmother. And explain to her how she inspired me to live my truth, no matter how painful it is. In addition to the wisdom she gifted me, I inherited her ingenuity and appreciation for self expression. The leather woman gave me my middle name, a tough skin and the means to configure my identity. The leather woman gave me stories that now adorn my skin. The leather woman helped her cotton grandchild spin a silken shell so painstakingly designed. My story rises and sets on her, just like as a matriarch does for her loved ones. Just as she did for me, in that respect my body is a shrine, and the holes in my ears are portals for her spirit to whisper into.