I was just checking my personal Facebook feed when I noticed a friend has posted a video. He was sure to let people know it was hard to watch so I read the title to the video. My stomach dropped. Apparently this video is of a mother giving her baby boy a tattoo. Now I didn't watch the video so I have no idea if the child truly was a baby or if that is just what they called the boy. I know there are videos floating around the Internet of parents abusing their children and it truly makes me sick. How awful for these children to be abused by a parent and then to have it posted on the Internet. As strange as it may sound I am glad my abuse took place before there were camera phones and digital cameras. I am more shocked that a these videos exist on the Internet than I am of the abuse occurring. Yes it is shocking that a mother would tattoo her child but only in the "normal" world. In the world of abuse and addiction tattooing a child is not that far fetched. I was a tattooed child.
I got my first tattoo when I was 10 years old. My mother and some of her friends had built a tattoo gun out of whatever they could find. For a good three months that was all my kitchen was used for, tattooing. My mother got really into it and was putting tattoos on all her friends. Being 10 years old I actually thought it was kind of cool. Plus it kept my mother happy. At school I started drawing on my hands and forearms. Not so much because I wanted to look like I had tattoos but because I was bored in school. I drew on myself instead of paper because we couldn't afford to replace paper. It used to drive my mother nuts when I came home covered in pen ink. She told me if I kept it up she would give me a real tattoo. I didn't believe her. She was always threatening me with stuff like that. If she wanted to do damage she wouldn't threaten, she would act. So I continued with my doodling.
I should also explain that I had a horrible habit of not coming home right after school. I would wonder through the streets or just play on the playground at school. Anything to keep from going home too soon. I knew I would be in trouble but I was so terrified of my mother I had to work up courage to go home. My mother would try to scare me with stories of little girls being kidnapped and murdered. None of it worked. As my brother got older I started to spend more time at home.
One day, I came home from school way too late and on the wrong day. My mother was manic and probably high. She screamed at me for being late. Tried to convince me that she had been worried when in reality she was wanting to leave for the night and couldn't until I got home. During the screaming she started to hit me. I put my hands up and she noticed my doodling. Something seemed to calm her. She quit hitting and screaming. As calm as can be she told me to go to the kitchen. She and her boyfriend had been doing some tattooing earlier in the day. The boyfriend was at the kitchen table and didn't bat an eye when my mother told him what she wanted to do. He just started to get everything ready. My mother then explained to me that I was getting a tattoo for two reasons: I keep drawing on myself and she wanted a way to identify me if I was ever beyond facial recognition. I was floored. There was nothing I could do. I couldn't fight her. I knew she would hold me down if I tried. So I put a smile on my face and sat down. As the child of an addict you learn that sometimes it is better to go along with the crazy.
I'm not entirely sure what happened next. I know I got a tattoo but I can't remember who gave it too me. Part of me says it was my mother because I can see her bent over my ankle with the tattoo gun in her hand. However, her boyfriend my have done it because I can see her holding me while it is done. No matter who did it the fact remains that I had a quarter inch cross the outside of my left ankle. I remember my mother stressing to me not to tell anyone. If I did she could get in a lot of trouble. Even then I knew that if you can't tell anyone then something was wrong. But I kept the secret. Well kind of. When I started a new school I would show a select few in an attempt to make friends. It never worked out well. I never worried about those kids telling their parents. Honestly, who would believe a mother would tattoo her child? I was never asked my a teacher or school administrator about it so I'm sure no one reported it to anyone.
After my tattoo was done my little brother wanted one. He was about four at the time and thought everything my mother did was right. He didn't know any better. Our mother was his whole world until he was six. When my brother asked for his tattoo my mother agreed. She didn't put any ink on the needle though and my brother freaked when it touched his skin. He did have a faint line for a while. The needle in the gun had been changed before I got mine but she didn't change it for my brother. Luckily both my brother and I are free of blood diseases.
While I have a permanent reminder of abuse I choose to look at it a different way. When I look down at that tattoo and look at my daughter I am can't help but be grateful for how far I have come. I'm grateful that I have a reminder of what addiction can do to a child and to make sure I don't go down that path. I have gotten a few more tattoos as an adult and I love them. I have always found tattoos beautiful. I would never tattoo or let my child be tattooed. I won't even pierce her ears until she is old enough to ask and to take care of them. This is just my personal standing. But having been permanently marked against my will can you blame me??
Taya
