When I was a wee girl growing up at the New York Renaissance Faire, I used to wake up extra early on weekends and run to my favorite booth to get inked. It may not have been real, but for the day I was proud to sport a little color.
Perhaps it was the influence of my mother’s three tattoos, but I have always loved the idea of my skin telling my story. In may ways, my skin does tell my story, the story of my journey. The story of a slim girl getting bigger. I have accepted my skin as much as I think I ever will, but that is not all of me. I am more than the sum of my scars. What about finding myself? What about gaining confidence? My stretchmarks tell the story of my pain, but there has been so much joy and so much strength that speak louder now than anything that already scars my body.
So I want to get inked for a lifetime. I have the what, but where? As proud of what I’ve accomplished, there are parts of my body I will never accept. Extra skin that may some day be removed. Areas that are still changing as I am shrinking. There are areas that I cannot show for professional reasons. So where does a fat girl get a beautiful and permanent piece of art so that it can be shown to the world and hidden from it when it needs to be? When ink is supposed to flow with your body, what do you do when your body has no flow?