Scratched by a Tiger

We sat in the parking lot outside of the shop. The Domino's Pizza next door wafted in notes of cheese and pepperoni, and I closed my mouth to hold in what felt like upchuck making its way forward. The smell of pepperoni made me nauseous- my mother bred me to fear the smell of anything unkosher- and I was gagging at the thought of flabby circularized pork.

My boyfriend grounded me, “Dani, come on. You're fine, let’s go inside. We’ve been talking about this for so long!”

But I look pretty fucking stupid wearing a birthday crown to the tattoo parlor.

My boyfriend insisted I keep the crown on all day after he had delivered it to me 1st period in biology. The crown knotted itself in my curls every which way; it wasn’t leaving my head even if I wanted it to. I stepped out of my car, wrinkling my nose at my boyfriend when we got the full whiff of the counterfeit meat. I scowled and twisted my face in pain, making sure he could see my anguish, while he laughed and walked ahead of me towards the shop.

If I throw up during this, it’s because of the fucking pepperoni.

I had spent the past six months researching my city’s local tattoo parlors. Most of my options were disappointingly underwhelming, with apathetic customer reviews, ridiculous pricing, or limited design options. One of the last shops I searched, Tattoo 13, was reputable for their customer service, pricing, and cleanliness. I didn't have many options to compare it to, so I brought Austin and went.

I didn’t have many expectations for what would happen once I entered the shop; I had spent too much time thinking about how my life would change after the appointment I’d made so many months before. I didn’t tell my parents about it, making it a solemn promise to myself to do better for my family.

The tattoo, in my mind, served as a written agreement between me and my body. I operate well under bounds of commitment, but the problem I found was that there are no legal documents to bind yourself to an honor of health; there are no lawyers to fight an eating disorder that lives within you, and if there’s an eating disorder manifesto, I have yet to find it. Getting a tattoo was the best way to make a commitment to the future I want, and I knew that ink would hold me to it.

Sitting in the leather chair, the three of us made simple conversation. We talked as the artist, KJ, worked to set my tattoo stencil on my left rib cage. Austin made sure to make more jokes than he normally did to ease my nerves, but I was more wanting to get the whole thing over with.

Nothing like a topless conversation with a stranger and your boyfriend. Let’s get this thing started before I run out of here.

KJ described that the tattoo would feel like a cat scratch. Looking to my right as he worked on the left side of me, he turned on the machine and filled the room with the buzzing hum. The first needle touched my delicate skin and I harshly jerked to the side without thinking.

“What fucking cats do you know?”

“Stop moving, honey. Seriously, this is ink. Now is the time to be still.” KJ reminded me.

I was reminded of all of the reasons I swapped my bare skin for lines of ink. I stopped moving after that; the needles didn’t become more bearable, but they now felt like a ceremonial trade of pain for all that I had put my family through.

With every stick of pain, tears rolled down the sides of my face.

I’m sorry for the nights I made you listen to me cry myself to sleep.

I’m sorry for the days I took out my sadness on all of you.

He colored in the black lines of the National Eating Disorder Awareness symbol forcefully, bolding in the ink.

I’m sorry for the days you had to watch me eat, in fear of what would happen if you didn’t.

I’m sorry for the countless doctors and therapists you dragged me to, and how I thrashed out when I didn’t want to go.

KJ worked down my ribs, extending the symbol downwards on my ribs.

I will do better this time, I’m making this a promise.