This Is Gonna Hurt a Little

I fidgeted anxiously in the passenger seat, suddenly unsure of this decision, despite long hours of examining the details, and careful weighing of my options. The conviction of 30 seconds past had evaporated. My best friend had driven us here, out of support and encouragement, but I could sense her uncertainty as well. I understood that the consequences of this appointment would be permanent, forever altering the way in which I viewed myself, and perhaps how others would view me as well. “It’s now or never,” she joked, and we resolutely exited her beat up Toyota and entered into the experience that would indelibly mark my existence.

A quick series of questions confirming my age and consent, release of liability, several minutes of manageable discomfort, and it was over. Physically, my experience of having an abortion was brief and uncomplicated-the nurses were kind and compassionate, the procedure not nearly as horrifying as what I had conjured in my mind. Out of a desire for secrecy, I had limited access to information and resources explaining the process, and though the nurses patiently and objectively explained to me what my body would go through, very little time was devoted to the emotional distress that would weave it’s way nonchalantly into the fabric of my being. My fiance and I had made the decision together, knowing beyond any shred of doubt that this was the right course of action. He had two children from a previous marriage, his electricity had been turned off the week before due to non-payment as his self owned construction business crumbled under the weight of alimony, child support, a dead-beat client, and a housing crisis. I was finishing my junior year of college, and looking at graduate programs, struggling with what seemed like an insurmountable amount of student loan payments on the horizon. It was the only resolution that allowed for any opportunity of a future for either of us, and potentially the best possible future for a child down the road.

Years later, I felt a similar sense of trepidation as I walked into the tattoo shop I had carefully researched and chosen, the skill and talent of the artists well renowned, and the vibe non-judgmental and open. There was a ‘no questions asked, but we’ll listen if you want to talk,’ kind of energy there, and I felt comfortable both in my silence and cautious explanation of my tattoo of choice.

My fiance and I did eventually marry-and divorce-after conceiving the most amazingly beautiful baby boy a few years later, in part due to the guilt we both carried and kept caged and compartmentalized within us, like a sort of expertly trained attack animal, we polished and honed our resentment, letting it out of that cage to wound one another during our increasingly frequent arguments, then herding back into its imprisonment to lick its wounds. We knew each other’s weaknesses, far better than we knew our own, and trained our beasts to seek them out and exploit them. The death blow came during a fight that began over something as trivial as a light left on in the downstairs bathroom, and ended with him declaring me a “baby murderer” and that I had “killed his baby girl.” We never knew the gender of the fetus that was aborted, it was far too early in the pregnancy, but he by now had had three sons, and in his unacknowledged state of depression, had convinced himself that we would have had a perfect princess of a child, had we not committed this sin, as he had come to think of it. This declaration quite literally floored me, and as I sobbed on the damp bathroom floor rug, I knew that to be able raise my son, I needed to exit this marriage and focus on my mental health. His birth had been the most grounding, earth shatteringly amazing moment, but as much as his arrival brought with it intense love and adoration, old guilts and doubts had surfaced with it, for both my husband and I. Gazing at his perfect little face looking up at me so full of trust and potential, it was impossible not to think of what could have been.

Initially I decided on the tattoo of a sugar skull as a sort of penance to be paid, a physical representation of what I had done, and reminder of the horrible consequences of my own irresponsibility. I had read that these traditionally Latin-American decorations symbolized the soul of a lost loved one, often children, and were a way to honor their memories. The day of my appointment, I felt an overwhelming sense of retribution and release. I sat for over five hours and at least three cigarette breaks for Max, the artist I had selected not only for his ability but sincerity as well. We had opted for a more realistic image of a skull, interlaced with the fine filigree and markings of a more traditional sugar skull. As the small bones of my foot vibrated and ached with the hum and pressure of the tattoo machine, what began as an act of flagellation transitioned to one of forgiveness and acceptance. Through the sting and pain of visibly owning my past, I found my way to redemption and peace.

Of course, there was a lot of therapy involved as well, moments of self loathing and long periods of depression. I never doubted that an abortion was the right decision at the time, I know with certainty that it was. Despite being the best option, it wasn’t without consequence. At first, when a person asked about my tattoo and what it meant to me, I would just mention it was personal, and leave it to him or her to interpret, or just appreciate the artwork. I have arrived at a place in my life, finally, where I can share the meaning behind it, openly and without shame, and hopefully by doing so, normalize what is, fundamentally, a medical procedure that no woman should have to hide, or endure privately. My body art is part of who I am, both physically and existentially, though I am not defined by it or by the moment that inspired it, but is part of the collective of experiences that shape the person that I am today, and the person I want to be tomorrow.