Conquering Demons

Tattoos mean many things to different people. For me, they represent everything I've overcome and give me the most personal outlet possible to show the world exactly the kind of strong minded and outgoing woman I've become.

From a young age I faced issues that are not commonplace for many children growing up.

My Mum was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis shortly before I was born, and her illness deteriorated rapidly over my short-lived childhood. My Father was out of the picture early on and left me with a bitter and resentful woman who was painfully angry with the cards she had been dealt. Facing the prospect of her body becoming completely noncompliant to her demands, she also had to face rearing a toddler who did much the same. The frustration and anger she felt with her situation as her illness quickly and efficiently progressed, spilled out of her in spiteful vengeance, directed at the only human being who had done nothing to deserve it, me.

I had inadvertently become a young carer and was to some extent blissfully ignorant that childhood may take a different form for other children.

As I am sure we all know from growing up, childhood ignorance does not endure.

Over my youngest years before the age of 10, I was treated to vile outbursts of rage from my mother exclaiming persistently that her illness was triggered by my birth and that the stress of having me and raising me had no doubt been the cause for it's rapid progression.

I could do nothing but yearn for her love and affection and strive to do my best daily to meet her demanding needs as an invalid.

What pained me further was not just the hatred that seemed to spew from her on her own behalf, but on occasion she felt the need to inform me there was no love lost from my father's side either.

Every time she felt pained about the dissolution of her marriage, she had no qualms in blaming that on my existence as well, screaming that my father had no interest in me and subsequently left because of me. I was the spawn of Satan sent to torment this poor woman, so she would have me convinced.

For many, experiences like these may have pushed them to hate and resent themselves and be forever their own enemy, holding themselves back with their own fear and self doubt. When someone tells you enough times you are not enough, who can blame you for beginning to believe it? Especially when this person is the one person supposedly bound by mother nature's rules to be your protector and from whom you should expect absolute, unwavering love and devotion?

These accusations from her of my own worthlessness, led to me being a very shy and reclusive child.

At the age of 10 my mother decided it was in my best interests to be sent away to boarding school and she would take on full time carers to look after her in my absence. I was thrilled at the prospect, having just finished reading the Harry Potter books, I felt a synonymous affiliation with this character and silently celebrated as my imagination ran wild at all the fun I would surely have once I had escaped my dark and hopeless purgatory.

I was much mistaken. Soon after arriving I realised magic and mystical adventures was not what awaited me. Monsters, maybe.

It was a military school; my father had been in the Navy which qualified me for entrance. All the children in attendance had all come from military backgrounds. It turned out, most of them had already forged friendships with each other due to spending time on the same military bases.

I was quickly pinned as an outsider. Being the youngest in my class and spending my entire childhood with my disabled mother instead of playing with other children deemed me the most inexperienced playmate/ally.

I struggled to fit in and had no idea who I was or my place in the world.

My 3 year long turbulent stint at this school ended abruptly when I was expelled following a failed suicide attempt. I was just not the kind of student they needed nor had the time for, they simply could not expect the teachers to keep guard over a suicidal child, for how traumatic it would have been for them had I been successful on their watch. Instead of delving deeper into my turmoil or offering a helping hand, they shunned their own guilt at my neglect, turned their backs and asked me politely to leave.

My arrival back to my mother's house was not a welcome one. The years that followed unleashed the wrath of my rebellion. I had become a tormented soul whose sole agenda was to show the world how little I cared about just how little it cared for me. Drink turned to drugs turned to sex, my self worth deteriorated with each passing day. I was looking for escape. I looked for validation in the peers I surrounded myself with, who were also misfits.

I was 14 when I was first tattooed. A boyfriend I had at the time, who was a few years older and big into tattoos, took me along to his parlor of choice. He paid for me to get a black rose tattooed on my inner arm. Seemingly inconsequential and meaningless at the time, this tattoo ended up having a deep meaning for me as this boy, my very first boyfriend, ended up taking his own life. It was at this point that I felt a deeper connection with the tattoos I began to accumulate.

My self image was always warped, and after years of verbal abuse from my mother calling me fat, it's not shocking or surprising that I developed an eating disorder. My weight fluctuated, I kept drinking heavily and partaking in all sorts of drugs and experimentation trying to find some semblance of what others described as happiness or contentment.

I had become ill both physically and mentally. At one point I developed a stomach ulcer from a combination of overconsumption of hard alcohol and bulimia, and I spent most days of the week curled up under my bed sheets trying to escape the crippling anxiety and the dark cloud of depression that constantly followed me.

Eventually I decided that enough was enough. I decided to stop feeling sorry for myself and to try to change my situation. I wanted to travel. I was sure exploring the world would ease my pain and open new doors for me. I yearned to be a different person.

I packed my bags and set off on a solo trip.

Over the years that I have travelled, I have met so many distinctive and amazing personalities. I have reveled in epic and amazing experiences that I never could have imagined from under my crinkled bed sheets.

As my personality grew and blossomed with each social interaction, so did my tattoos. The more self worth I gained, the more outgoing I became, the more I decorated my body. Each one solidifying my identity and belief in myself even further than the last. I finally learned how to express myself. I wore my hair in crazy colours and styles, my outfits became more creative and ludicrous.

All the years I used to hide and shy away from others, never wanting to be the centre of attention. I grew into someone who purposefully turns heads and is not afraid to be the most shining and vivid version of themselves.

As I traveled, I found real friendships in people who lift me up and show me what there is to live for. I have several tattoos that are matching tattoos with people I have connected with throughout my life. I will look upon them fondly and each out to those people whenever I feel down or lonely. Some tattoos were chosen to celebrate accomplishments and achievements, such as a Himalayan Yak symbolising a two-week trek I competed in Nepal. I have been tattooed by different artists on my travels all around the world from Scotland, Australia, India, Thailand, Canada, and more. There is certainly more in store for me yet.

My tattoos are like the stamps in my passport, transporting me back to places I have been and adventures I've been a part of. I get to relive these memories every time I glance in the mirror, reminding me of who I am and who I have become.

Many people pass judgement on my tattoos, confusion spreading across their faces as they ask questions like 'what about when you're older?' 'What about your future, no one will hire you!' 'What about on your wedding day?'

Well all I have to say about that is, I am more me now than I ever was before my tattoos and if I can be as much the me that I am now when I'm older then I think I'll have done just fine. I'm not all of a sudden going to turn 60 and regret the person I have grown into. My tattoos may wrinkle and fade, but they will mean as much to me then as they do now, I promise. My tattoo’s have never held me back, the culmination of the right attitude and me finally feeling confident to express myself in a positive way will only ever propel me further to success and happiness.

As for my wedding, if I eventually meet a man who loves me to my core for absolutely every thing about me, then I'll have the coolest, most kick ass wedding, wearing the most pin up dress out there, showing my tattoos with absolute pride.

My mother passed away a few years ago, unfortunately without any resolution of the past. I've had to learn to let go of my demons, demons I thought unconquerable.

With self discipline and patience, I have taught myself to ignore her voice in the back of my head telling me I'm not enough. I will not deny that they rear their ugly heads from time to time, everyone stumbles, the trick is learning how to be steady on your feet again after you have fallen. Sometimes it feels as though there is an angel and a demon on each shoulder and the pull from each is so strong, they may rip you in two. I think I can confidently say that I’m finally okay with listening to them both from time to time.

I am now the most dazzling version of me. In all my tattooed glory.

A quick quote from my favorite passage "“A person who has good thoughts cannot ever be ugly. You can have a wonky nose and a crooked mouth and a double chin and stick-out teeth, but if you have good thoughts they will shine out of your face like sunbeams and you will always look lovely."