My Semi-Colon

This is a blog post about a tattoo.  My tattoo.

Yep, me.  The plain, very conservative, Christian girl. 

I never felt the need, in all my 36 years, to have a tattoo.  I mean, why would I PERMANENTLY mark myself  with anything, when life is so uncertain?  It seemed very risky to my thinking.

Then, the end of last year, after years of suffering through the darkest and scariest experiences of my life, I admitted I needed help.  I began this journey to better mental health.

As I took steps to healing, I realized the thing I was most frustrated with on my road to recovery was that I wasn’t allowed to talk about it.  For example, when someone breaks their arm, you immediately see the cast and ask “Oh my, what happened!?” And you start a dialogue.  Take notice of the prayer list at your church, do any of them say “pray for their mental illness” or “they need support for their depression”.  Not likely.

There were so many times that I would find myself wanting to tell people that I was improving.  I would be in the middle of a crowd and thinking “I’m DOING THIS… I’m here, WITH PEOPLE… I’m Not freaking out!”  I had made another step in my recovery, only to have to squelch the urge to tell my family because it makes them uncomfortable.  Sometimes,  when I would make it to the grocery store, alone, without a panic attack, I would think about calling my sister, only to realize that she doesn’t know that I’m a mental patient.  Or I would feel how great it was to make it through the day with out crying and I would type in the little status box on facebook “Great day! I kicked depressions butt today! NO CRYING!!” only to erase it, because it would draw unnecessary attention to a disease that isn’t socially acceptable to have.

I got tired of that.  I got tired of feeling like I had to hide that I was getting better.  I got irritated that I was SO.MUCH.BETTER. and I couldn’t type that in my status, I couldn’t tell anyone.  Out of fear.  Fear of the stigmas attached to mental patients.  Fear of being judged because “It’s all in your head”.

So, I went to a tattoo parlor.  I laid my wrist out there and I tattooed myself.  I put this mirco-tattoo on my arm that draws attention from all who see it.

And I started practicing.  I practiced what I would say when someone asked about it.  I started having fake conversations in my head (I am a mental patient, so it wasn’t that far of a reach), about how I would respond when someone asked “why a semi colon?”.   I practiced my facial reaction for when one of my “churchy” friends noticed it.

And I prayed.  I prayed that I was doing the right thing, I prayed that I could reach people who were struggling, by showing solidarity.  I prayed that, even though I was terrified by speaking to people, maybe they would see that tattoo and know, without words, that they aren’t alone.  I prayed that if someone needed help, they could see that very prominent tattoo and maybe, they would have the courage to reach out to me.

I’m ready.