Mommy's Ink

 I have a tattoo...a very obvious one at that. When people meet me and my children they tend to notice the bold ink on my left wrist. Some simply shake their head while others roll their eyes. Those are the ones that usually see it as a fad among us young mothers. Then there are those who criticize me for desecrating my body with ink. I try to ignore them most of the time, because they do not know the truth. They do not need to know it either. If they knew the truth they may not like it, or they might feel sorry for me. I do not want pity, I never have liked pity. I want understanding though and often find myself lacking it. So I think I should write about the hidden meaning behind "Hope."
   To understand why I had "Hope" inked into the skin on my left wrist, you need to know about my childhood. My parents loved me, and it took me years to understand this. I went through psychological and physical abuse by both of parents from about the age of four until I moved out when I was seventeen. Most of the physical happened at the hands of my father. My mother used more psychological abuse than physical, and years later I know why. My mother went through some horrific events as a child and never received counseling. My parents were not always bad towards me, there are some wonderful memories of them. They just needed help and never received it. The most traumatic event occurred when I was about five years old. My father's brother came to stay with us for a visit that summer. In the middle of the night he molested me. My mother woke up, groggy due to her medicine. She was sick after my brother was born. She thought she saw my uncle coming out of my bedroom and adjusting his pants, but she was not sure. The next morning when my parents woke up, my uncle had already left. He had originally planned on being there for three more days. My mother tried talking to my father about what she thought she had seen, but he brushed it off. Nothing else was ever mentioned of it, even despite my drastic change in behavior. For the next twelve years I struggled with the anger, fear, hurt, depression, and hatred that no child can truly cope with on their own. I became very depressed as I got older. I was tormented in middle school by my peers and my home life was not the best. By the time I reached high school I had began to cut myself. My left wrist was my favorite place to cut. Part of me hoped that I would slip and cut too deep. I wrote poetry every day, pouring my emotions out onto the pages. I tried showing them to my mother, but she would simply say I was overreacting. I was alone, at least it felt that way, with dark thoughts I can not describe fully nearly eight years later. I began to rebel against my traditional Christian upbringing. I began to drink smoke, and have sex behind my parents' backs. My grades slipped from straight A's to nearly failing, but I didn't care anymore. I planned on killing myself one night, but my baby sister came into the room. I broke down crying and confessed everything to my friends the next morning. I was sent to a mental health facility where they addressed my cutting, but the underlying problems. I was about to be sent home when I told them that if I went back home I would either be back in two weeks, or they would be reading my obituary. I admit I had a flair for being dramatic. So my grandmother took me in. I was supposed to receive after care, but never did. So needless to say two months  later I was worse than ever before. One night I went into the bathroom and slowly swallowed my sleeping pills, anti-psychotics, anti-depressants, and my grandmother's pain medication. I then laid down in bed and sent a goodbye text to about fifteen friends. One friend became extremely concerned and called the sheriff department. I was rushed to the hospital where I had to drink charcoal to absorb the toxins. I was once again sent to mental health facility. This one was better than the first one and I was able to address my underlying issues.
   For the next seven years I would struggle with the depression caused by everything I went through as a child. My recovery was hindered by an abusive marriage. I am not healed, I do have moments where I break down. When my daughter turned three I decided I wanted to get a tattoo. I wanted something to remind myself to never give up hope. Despite all of the darkness in my life, there is so much beauty in it. Had my friend not cared enough to call the cops, I would not be here today. Two beautiful children would not exist. Had I not gone through the pain though, I would not be who I am. Instead of scars on my left wrist, I can now look down and see the reminder that here is always hope. Hope will always be there, even when it feels like all hope has vanished.