Taboo Tattoos

My aunt passed away July 13, 2013. My mother's younger sister had already been diagnosed with breast cancer and was a survivor. Over five years later, she would then become diagnosed with lung and brain cancer, inoperable. My mom, being a nurse was heavily relied upon to palliate her own sister until her dying day. During that time, my grandmother had been taken to the hospital for cellulitis in her leg. She was my father's mother and my mother's ex mother-in-law. Despite what was going on with her own family, and despite how that side of the family had treated her before and after the divorce; my mother stepped up to also palliate my grandmother. At the time, it seemed like my aunt would last the summer and that my grandmother would not last the spring, so my mom went back and forth between my two families. My grandmother's cellulitis was why she first went to the hospital, but after a series of strokes and mini heart-attacks soon came to follow. It was surreal to spend so much time with my father's family who had never been very close with us. My mother was at the hospital nearly 24/7 and everyone was relying on her to "save" my grandmother. Finally she was pronounced well enough to go home. Instead, she was moved to another hospital, but we visited often and she seemed on the mend. With that done, my mother had to then take care of her sister who had progressed further with her cancer. She spent all of her time that summer beside her sister's bed, feeding her and giving her her medication while also being the support system for her mother and siblings. Eventually she was the one to keep her sister permanently sedated, administering medication every four hours. All the while, my father's family was calling her to get second opinions on everything the doctors and nurses were saying about my grandmother. Meanwhile, my brother and I were at home alone for months. Thankfully, we're adults, but a lot of time was spent worrying over family members. With my mother gone and not working, I took care of the house and paid the bills. I was also working three jobs and my brother was working full time with his job. When my aunt passed, my brother and I left home to be with mom. Exactly one month later, August 13, my grandmother passed away, and we had another funeral to attend. That year was rough, I ended up losing 13 people from life; most were deaths, but a few were just people who had decided they were fed up with how "depressing" I was all the time.

This post is title "Taboo Tattoos" because there are many things i our culture and society that people just do not talk about. Stigmas are applied to mental health issues, death, cancer, and so much more. Unfortunately for those "taboo" topics, I want to break those stigmas. With myself, I decided to openly protest some taboos with my tattoos. Something that many people consider to also be illicit. This post will not be happy and jolly, it is full of feels.

My first tattoo was directly inspired by my aunt and grandmother. While bouncing back and forth from school, work, and family members (including my mom, who had just had surgery), I stopped in at my granny's. She used to live near Edmonton, where I went to school, and two of my aunt's lived with her. I had to bring red plastic plates for my aunt because she could no longer see her food on the, now too heavy/breakable, glass white plates. I stayed for two hours at my gran's place. Completely knowing that it would be the last two hours I would ever spend with my aunt. While everyone else was already in denial, mom and I knew better. Knowing sucks, but ignorance is not bliss. My aunt knew it too. As I left her, she gave me a big hug and told me "Don't worry." Her last words to me.

After that, I spent a lot of time with my grandmother back at home, she was closer, geographically, and my father needed me. This was his mother, one of the only women he truly loved. Only one of my three jobs was understanding enough to give me time off that summer. I had to literally fight with my two other jobs. They couldn't understand why I needed time off. It wasn't like anyone had fully died, they were only dying. Dying is harder than death you morons. Coincidentally, one of those jobs was also the one that told me to suck up sexual harassment. My grandmother, while in the first hospital was rarely lucid during her stay, due to the strokes, heart attacks, and copious morphine injections (that we later found out she was allergic too). I remember standing at the foot of her bed, watching her rest and holding her blanketed foot; when she suddenly had a moment of clarity. She looked at me, and stated "I see an angel". It was so clear, she was awake and responsive, she didn't seem confused at all. I will never know, nor do I want to know, if she was hallucinating or lucid at that moment. Someone tried to tell her that it was just Lynnsy standing there, but I don't care if she saw something or if I was her angel. It was the last thing I remember her saying. She was asleep almost every time after that. I'm certain she had told me she loved me, I know I told her that; but that comment, is all I remember from her last days. Death is so natural, it is literally what were born to do. Sure, there is living in between, but the end game is to die. So why do people refuse to talk about it, why does society fear the inevitable. Of course it is painful for all involved, but fear will not make it an easier. Denying it and laying blame will only cause pain and heartache. So stop pretending like this isn't a thing we are all going to do. I think, if discussions about death were more common, humanity would have less anxiety and fear over something so natural. I get panic attacks even slightly imagining my life after death. I cannot calmly think about that inevitable point of what will be my life. I can't possibly be alone in this. We should stop lying to ourselves and others about this. That can cause trauma too. Just accept and understand.

I had always wanted tattoos, I remember my mom's first (and only) tattoo appointment. I loved everything about them. However, my parents were oddly against them. They thought I would mar my body forever and would no longer be something. I don't know what. Thankfully, my first tattoo, would be something they would agree on. I laid it out in a very adult manner. I was 21, I had the money, I had done my research, I wasn't asking permission but was politely telling them that this would happen; and, the tattoo would be the last words of my recently departed aunt and grandmother. While my parents conceded they still thought a tattoo wasn't the best way to memorialize two people who had never nor would ever have gotten a tattoo. But this way, was my own creative spin on always keeping a part of them with me. Since then, they have both grown to love the tattoo. Mom always has be show it off in photos, a way of including those two beautiful ladies in all that I do. My dad, tells everyone that he hates tattoos, but mine is a good one. A lot of people didn't like my tattoo because they thought it had too strong of a religious connotation. As if "angel" made me offensively Christian, or something ridiculous, those people are idiots. Other people thought I was morbid for permanently getting dead people's words on my body. Those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind (Not a Dr. Seuss Quote).

My second tattoo is a lot bigger, less sentimental, less taboo, and a big secret. I had hoped that my first would have been what ended up as my second. Guilty pleasure inspiration on this one. I know Dan Brown is a total kook, but there are odd parts in his writing that are factual. Such as the references to apples and them being a symbol of femininity. Apples and roses are plant cousins. I really liked the idea of having apple blossoms in different stages to represent myself and my family through natural femininity. So I had an (now) ex-friend sketch me some artwork for my future tattoo. That is what my second tattoo is based upon. I went back to the same shop who did my first piece to draw and tattoo my second piece. They took the old artwork and recreated it though a Japanese style; thus, the blossoms look more like cherry blossoms, but they have the bright colours of Japan. The artist told me she was glad I was so pale, because she got to use her favourite colours on me. It is of blossoms in different stages, growing on a branch with green leaves. Full of life, budding and blooming. Using the original artwork of someone who used to be dear to me, symbolizing life, women, family, nature and beauty. I think it is a perfect piece. A painful piece, needles dragging over bones hurts, but perfect. I hid it from my mother for months, I could have kept it hidden for years, but she saw it one day when she was about to give me a massage for my messed up back. Luckily, her friend who was going to help with my back said it was pretty and mom could only agree, to avoid a scene. Dad still doesn't know, we're going to keep it that way.

My last tattoo isn't controversial at all, but the subject behind it is. It is a semicolon behind my ear. Took all of two seconds to do, but a lifetime of inspiration. Some of you not English major/minors may not know what a semicolon is, it is this ";". That weird little bit of punctuation that you never use, or when you do it is likely incorrect. A semicolon is to be used to connect two separate sentences of the same thought. You use it when you could end a sentence, but don't, you continue on. Suicide and mental health awareness groups have adopted the semicolon as their symbol. It represents all those who could end the sentence of their lives, but choose to keep going. It is used as a symbol of awareness and solidarity. Suicide and mental health issues are not things that people of "polite" society discuss. Especially not in the open. By having this tattooed on my person, I made an open statement that says suicide and mental illness are real. They are not things that should be ignored or only spoken in hushed whispers. They are not rarities in our society. The fact that there is a culture around a punctuation mark as a symbol should suggest to the world that the stigma needs to be broken. When someone ignores another's pain or dismisses it, they are only adding more pain.

After my year of 13, I broke one day. I had finally finished my first degree and was at home, struggling to find a job. My mother and I started fighting and she told me that if I couldn't get a job, then I would have to leave. So I started packing, I don't know where I was going to go, I had no friends in town and my family was all in Alberta. As I packed, I screamed at my mother that I was certain I had depression and that she was a monster for kicking me out. Of course, she instantly started unpacking my bags and tried to hug me. I was too hurt and too angry, I shoved her off of me and left the house. I drove around for an hour and went to my brother's. He told me I wasn't welcome there because he didn't want to upset mom. I had made up my mind that I would have to move in with my sister in Alberta, when I got a call from my doctor's office. My mom, fearful for me had called him to set up an emergency appointment. I agreed to go because I knew I needed help. Reunited with my mom, and terrified to have "come out" to her, we went to the doctor and he diagnosed me anxiety, insomnia, and depression. He prescribed counselling and medication. I hadn't slept properly since I started university, every night I woke numerous times with nightmares, when I did sleep it was fitful and short. Typically I couldn't sleep and had naps throughout the day. I had always been shy, but grew more reserved in some aspects and strangely outgoing in others. I had mood swings, days where all was well and so many days where I couldn't leave my bed. It did not help that I had lost so many people in one year. It did not help that many people I called friend stopped talking to me because of my erratic behaviour and my "depressing" nature. It did not help that I couldn't truly trust anyone I had ever known. It definitely did not help that mental health issues ran in my family, and it didn't help that my childhood experiences were already less than ideal, leading to an adolescence and adulthood that were filled with old pain and a tendency to ignore all the things "wrong" with me. What did help was the medication and talking about my feelings. I shouldn't have told my mother the way I did, I know I scared her. I should have told someone sooner and it should have been in a healthy way. At least I did tell someone though. It was scariest thing I had ever done. But it was the best thing I could ever do for myself. I share this story, not to depress you, but to let you know that you are not alone. To let you know that there are things that help. I have grown stronger with my family by removing the stigma of mental illness. I have found out who my true friends are, and we share our emotions and support each other in everything. And my well-being is not a secret. I will gladly tell anyone who brings up the topic that this is real and it is okay. There is nothing wrong with me, you , or anyone else. We are humans and humans have pain. Tell someone and get help. That is why I have the semicolon tattoo. I don't think I would have ever hurt myself or ended my life, but who knows what it could have progressed to. Unfortunately, there are people who do end their sentence because they are ignored or have too much pain to bear alone. As a human being, as an advocate and an activist, as an educator, as a family member and a friend, I support this cause with my whole self. My tattoo does that, just ink in skin.

For more feels, wait until next Thursday. Or reach out to me, I don't just Nollitall, I can listen too. If you like my tattoos, check out the place that did them here: http://www.ritualistics.ca/​