I’ve loved tattoos my entire life – and began tattoo planning at the age of 10. As soon as I had a computer, I’d Photoshop tattoos onto my body; then later drew tattoos on my skin with eyeliner pens. I think tattoos are beautiful, proud art statements that can mean something incredibly heartfelt – or mean nothing at all and just make the person happy.
I got my first tattoo for my 19th birthday. I had come up with the idea, only a month prior, and knew straight away that it was meant for me. It’s true what they say about getting one tattoo – that you’ll be hooked and want more. I was enamored from the start. My second tattoo I got a year later – about 10x the size of my first, tiny feminine tattoo.
With a plan in mind to eventually have a half sleeve on my right arm, I’ve spent countless hours pinteresting geometric, black and white tattoos that match my chosen ~aesthetic~. But, I’ve also spent hours reflecting on my two visible arm tattoos and the way they affect how I interact with the world. I know when I go into interviews that I need to wear sleeves that reach my elbows, so to appear more “professional.” I know when my grandma sees my tattoos, she’ll beg me to never get another and “ruin my body.” I know when classmates, coworkers, or other people my age see my tattoos, they’ll touch and probe; they’ll tell me they like one over the other, and why. They’ll ask me to tell them the meanings – which I’ll have to lie about because it’s weird for me to discuss.
I know when people my parents’ age see the tattoos, they’ll ask me if I really thought them through. They’ll ask if I realize the tattoos will be visible while I wear my wedding dress. I know when strangers see them, they might react negatively – look at me like I’m young and stupid. I know some people might see me as hypersexual, especially as I continue to collect more.
Sometimes when all these thoughts bubble to the service, all the memories of these moments, I think about not getting more tattoos. Not making more waves, not welcoming more stares.
But, at the end of the day, it’s my body. My tattoos are my skin, I don’t see them as foreign or strange. They are me. As I continue to collect tattoos and build what I envision in my mind, I’ll continue to love my skin. Another person’s ideas or preconceived notions about who I am, based on the ink on my body, does not matter. Another person’s opinion does not matter. Another person’s judgment does not matter. I know how much I love my tattoos, how right they feel to me.
I have to live with this body for the rest of my life. I respect it, and cherish it, and try to treat it as well as I possibly can. Getting tattoos makes me feel more beautiful, more real, more honest. I will continue to collect tattoos until I no longer feel the need, or desire to do so.
And, you know what? If I ever decide I don’t love one anymore, I’ll just get it removed. IF and when I want to. And that’s okay, too.