For the longest time now, I’ve wanted to get 6 tally marks tattooed on my left wrist, primarily where the face of a watch would lie. For those of you who know, I am particularly terrified of even-numbers. Kind of like how some people are particularly offset by the number 13 (which is ironically, my favorite number). The disdain towards the even numbers has always been an annoyingly ever-present part of my everyday life. The number 6, however, has always been most inauspicious. What the tattoo would have meant was the end of a chapter. Some form of closure, if you will. You see, I was 6 years old when my life was forever changed by the adverse presence of one repulsive man. My cousin passed away when I was in the 6th grade, and in that same year, I smoked my first cigarette. I was one out of a group of 6 young, naive girls, out whom 2 are now dead. I spiraled out of control for 6 consecutive years, due to an intensive struggle with 6 primary obstacles, which include that of addiction and self-harm, my gender identity, my sexuality in relation to my faith, familial problems, molestation, and loss. Though these things have long been anchored down at sea, they still float back up to surface every once in a while. I still don’t know what to tell people when they ask me about my sexuality. Other times, I’ll smoke the 6th cigarette of the day just because it makes me feel so damn good. And of course, I can’t control when the people I love will leave me, and I’ll look for solace through any way I can. I thought I was strong enough to wear the tally marks as a permanent reminder that every big wave will in turn, collapse. But I’m unworthy. I’m not strong at all. I’m pathetic. Weak. And until I am free to roam the sky, I suppose my arm will have to endure these 6 new scars. I feel like an idiot. But my knuckles were already too bloodied to punch any more walls.
mkp.
