I don't usually cross-post, but the point of my art (and by proxy, this blog) is to highlight the relationship between art and life, emotions and artistic interlude, media and mindfulness. Here is a post by Aubin, which I find as introspective as I find beautiful.
-----
I’ve been watching a lot of episodes of Unsolved Mysteries lately. I mostly like the segments that deal with the paranormal or with miracles, but there are also those inevitable stories that deal with bizarre murders or unsolved homicides. I usually don’t like to see those for the same reason that most people watch them—it’s the “could that happen to me?” factor, the small panic at the back of my mind that tells me it’s completely possible for me to get caught in the exact situation the person the show is profiling did. I’m uneasy about the thought that despite trying my damndest to be a good person and do good things I might unwittingly get myself murdered under horrendous circumstances, but that doesn’t stop me from watching the recreated trainwreck as it unfolds on the tv screen.
A lot of the victims are unidentifiable by usual methods. They might be too badly decomposed for fingerprinting, they might be decapitated so that dental records won’t be of any use, or there might just not be enough distinctive things about them or their belongings to help the public give a positive ID. If investigators are lucky, John or Jane Doe has a tattoo unique enough to make the little light bulb above an unknown family member’s head turn on and they can give Mr. or Ms. Doe a real name and begin the task of tracking down their killer.
I’ve been watching these shows since I was a child and I am absolutely certain that seeing copious amounts of Unsolved Mysteries, America’s Most Wanted, and the History Channel between the ages of five and fifteen shaped how I view the world and how I measure my fear of it. I’m also absolutely sure that it’s no coincidence that I got my first tattoo a few months after I’d been granted a restraining order against an ex-boyfriend who had come close to killing me on two separate occasions (once by choking me until I lost consciousness, another time by holding a knife against me and telling me exactly how he was going to dismember and dispose of my body). Although I was fortunate to come out of that relationship with only a fractured left wrist, the emotional trauma was and is incalculable and it set off strange patterns of behavior in me that I’m still fighting with today.
When I got my first tattoo, I decided to have it done on the top of my left arm to, in my mind, strengthen the weakness created by the wrist injury. Being a fan of the Dresden Dolls, I decided to choose the design Dresden Dolls fans refer to as a symbol of “rock love,” a heart created by combining a bass and treble clef. Standing about two inches high and done in black ink with a Victorian etching style to it, I figured it would be a tasteful piece of body art that I wouldn’t regret even if I fell out of love with the band’s music.
As time went on, I spiraled deeper into destructive behaviors to deal with the fact that I had chosen to not deal with the abuse I’d endured. Instead of rape and domestic abuse support groups and therapy I turned to bulimia and serial dating, putting my body in unsafe and unhealthy situations regularly, shoving every repressed memory and flashback down as deep as I could and pretending I didn’t notice that I was actively trying to kill myself as I tried to kill the pain I was feeling. I felt unhinged, unsteady, and having read Neil Gaiman’s graphic novel series Sandman, I decided that I was also Delirium and that my next tattoo should be of that character from the series.
My version of Delirium is from the collection of stories called Brief Lives, from a scene drawn by Jill Thompson where Delirium is lying on her back on a couch in a travel agent’s office asking her brother the meanings of imaginary words. I think it would be fair to suggest that I subconsciously chose that scene because the content of the conversation and her physical position reminded me of things I didn’t want to openly be reminded of. I had the drawing tattooed on my right arm, a bit larger than the Rock Love heart.
As I was getting the tattoo done I came up with an idea that I presented to the tattoo artist as a joke, but it was probably closer to reality than I’d liked to admit. I said that my goal was to get one small tattoo on each section of my body (arms, legs, upper torso, lower torso, feet, hands) so that if a part of my body was found the police could identify me from it. At the time I saw it as a sensible tactic for covering my bases in case my ex tracked me down, some way to protect myself from the violence even though I knew I was no match to actually fight against it.
In the five years since I was granted my restraining order I’ve been abused/sexually assaulted by two more men and have had more than my fair share of emotional and physical ups and downs, including going through a rehab program for my eating disorder and gaining and losing more friends than I care to think of. This past week I’ve had many unexpected and unwelcome reminders of my domestic violence past and with those came a renewed interest in seeing Unsolved Mysteries and shows like it. Although I’m in a healthy relationship with someone who has the patience and love to handle my emotional relapses about my past, I still found myself today making loose plans for which part of my body I should label next for post-mortem identification. I wonder all the time what the turning point is in terms of “getting over” being raped and emotionally manipulated and physically hurt, and I think it’s impossible to measure it in anything other than small, almost invisible steps. Today I think I made one by not actually drawing up the plans to identify my hypothetical corpse and instead leaving it as a fleeting thought. I will not be murdered, I will not cover my fear of the future with fear of my past, and if I get any more tattoos they will not be based on which part of me is most likely to be found intact if I die under mysterious circumstances, but for something I love about life.
--
Aubin Thomas
