On Regrettable Tattoos and Body Image
By Katie Lotz
By Oj Johnson
Shortly before my 20th birthday, I began what I endearingly refer to as my quarter life crisis. I don’t think this is entirely uncommon, because turning 20 (in my opinion) feels like entering purgatory: you’re no longer a teenager, but you are still too young to enjoy the exciting parts of adulthood (such as legally buying alcohol or renting a car, I guess). So, as I panicked about entering this limbo of an age, I decided to do something exciting to commemorate my exit from my teenage years. I decided to get a tattoo.
My plan turned into action pretty fast, without a terrible amount of planning or general thought if I’m being honest, and soon enough I had a little black outline of a butterfly on my inner arm. Why a butterfly? Your guess is as good as mine.
Instantly, I regretted it. And I mean regretted it. The butterfly is soft, and almost cartoony, with long antennae and rounded wings. Did it look too feminine, or childish? Would it look better if it were more insect-y, or realistic? Was I about to enter into a lifetime of butterfly tramp stamp and daddy issue jokes?
This regret quickly morphed into anxiety. I wore cardigans and long sleeves in 90 plus degree weather, and didn’t mention my tattoo to family or even friends. I worried constantly about what strangers on the street would think of my tattoo, or about being asked about it by future partners. The permanency of my tattoo felt suffocating; I felt like I would have to spend the rest of my life apologizing to people who disliked it for being nineteen and impulsive.
It wasn’t until a few months later that I really started to ask myself why I hated this tattoo. When I am by myself, and I catch a glimpse of it in the mirror, or remember it in the shower, I think it’s kind of cute. I think it’s funny, and that it reminds me of a time in my life that I expect to look back on fondly. Maybe as I approach my 40th, 50th, or 60th, birthday, I’ll look at this tattoo and be proud of myself for making it farther than I thought I would, and laugh about how 20 felt so old and scary. Maybe I’ll be grateful to be older and wiser instead of nineteen and terrified of growing up.
I realized that if I were alone on this earth, I wouldn’t be bothered by the little black butterfly on my arm. Not that I think I would look at it every day and cherish it constantly, but rather, I don’t think I would give it much thought. I think I would just appreciate it for what it is, and devote my time and energy to worrying about more interesting things.
But I’m not alone on earth; I don’t exist in a vacuum. I’ve come to realize that I have spent a great deal of my life viewing my body as a product to be consumed or enjoyed by other people, as if adhering as closely as possible to conventional beauty standards is the most valuable currency I have to offer the world. Because of this, most of my life has been spent in fear of deviating from what I have been told is traditionally pretty, specifically in terms of body image.
My freshman year of college, I worried incessantly about gaining the infamous “freshman 15”. I began to resist my body’s normal and healthy transition from adolescence to adulthood by counting my calories and restricting my diet, even though I knew better. But what felt strange to me was that even when I was alone with my body, my thoughts were consumed with how other people might perceive it. I didn’t have any problems with the softness of my stomach, or the cellulite forming on my thighs, and yet I was so worried that other people would. I felt a strange sense of guilt thinking that other people might view my body in a negative light, as if the unsolicited opinions of strangers had any relevancy or power in my life. As if being perceived as thin or conventionally attractive was the debt that I owed to every person I encountered.
It felt like it snuck up on me gradually, but suddenly I realized that not a day went by where I didn’t think about the shape or size of my body. Even as my weight began to dip below what it had been in my early teens, it never felt like enough. About a year and a half after my freshman year of college, shortly after I impulsively decided to permanently sketch a little butterfly into my bicep, I stopped getting my period. I had noticed, and subsequently ignored, the warning signs of my unhealthy eating patterns for a long time - my nails were brittle, I was seemingly always splattered with purple bruises that took forever to disperse - but the sudden absence of my period made these symptoms feel too real. As if I were reverting back to a childlike state of dependency, unwilling to take care of my adult body in the way that I should. Ungrateful and resentful of the otherwise healthy body that I am so lucky to inhabit.
I thought back to when I was in junior high, when I actually wanted to get my period, to catch up with all of my friends (is this too much information to be shouting into the void of the internet? Absolutely, but let’s continue). At that time, I couldn’t wait to grow up. I couldn’t wait for my body to start looking like an adult, and for people to stop treating me like a child. Yet, seven years later, I found myself starving my body back to a prepubescent state and desperately afraid to enter a new phase of adulthood.
Eventually, I began to think of my tattoo as an act of rebellion (don’t laugh at me for calling a tiny butterfly tattoo rebellious) against the mindset that my body is a product for other people’s enjoyment, and that felt terrifying to me. I finally felt like I was admitting that my body belongs to me, and I’m free to do with it what I want. I resisted this mindset at first, because it felt so much scarier to take ownership of my body, and admit the ways that I have been so unkind to it.
So, I am trying to convince my mind to be on better terms with my body. I am trying to love it for all of its freckles and squishy places, for all of its imperfections and impulsively placed butterflies. It is a work in progress, of course, but nowadays, when someone asks me about the meaning of the little tattoo on my arm, I don’t panic, or try to explain some pseudo-poignant backstory about metamorphosis or beauty or rebirth. I simply explain the truth: there is no meaning. I just woke up one morning, feeling nihilistic and doubtful of the future, and figured, fuck it. Why not get a tattoo? It’s my body, after all.