In Memorium

Thirty years ago I came home from Pizza Hut, ran into the house to show my mother my Book It! pin, and saw her purple dress hanging on the chair in the dining room. I stood by my dad as he read a note on the table and my sister went looking for our mom. I don't remember why I went into the garage, but it was the place she was last when we left, doing another load of endless laundry. I remember walking through the kitchen, into the garage, and turning right to see my sister standing in the middle of the garage looking up at something hanging from the rafters. She was just standing there and I walked to join her to gaze upon what was so fascinating.

Sometimes I can remember what my mother looked like hanging from Laddie's leash attached to the rafter. She'd looped the hook part through the hand hold but, I can't recall how she hooked it around the rafter before she put her head through it and stepped off my father's workbench. Sometimes I see her tongue, swollen out of her mouth, very rarely I see her face.

Most of the time I just have a vague recollection of feet suspended in the air.

My memories of my mother's suicide are disjointed, blocked by my mind in order to protect myself. I genuinely wish I could recall all of the details so that the day could retain clarity in my mind, but instead I have sudden recollections and then they're gone again. I do remember sitting on my neighbor's porch swing, an elderly couple with white hair, the lady's arm around me, rocking the swing back and forth.

I remember my dad holding my mother in the air shouting "no, Kim NO!" and then she was down on the ground.

I recall paramedics, a neck brace, the thought that they were going to fix her and make everything better again. It would be okay.

The Last Unicorn

The Secret of Nimh

Janice Sowers house, the ever present piles of laundry on every surface, my father and sister gone to my mother's funeral which I refused to attend. Space Mouse, a little toy I saw at Publix that Janice bought me while I was in her care. I called him Space Mouse because the little felt piece of cheese he held reminded me of a floppy disk I'd once seen and since he was holding a floppy disk, he must be from outer space.

A snatch of Thanksgiving dinner at the mother of family friend's house, Jaws on the TV.

Scared.

Nothing.

I remember nothing of that time following my mother's death until one day, still not back to school, I'm sitting on my bed decked out in Strawberry Shortcake's finest just staring out the window at the tree swing. My father comes in and sits next to me on the bed, I lean into him as his weight shifts me closer. He puts his arm around me and we sit like that as I stare at my swing swaying in the breeze.

"You can cry."

I cried.

I cried for the first time since my mother died. Big great gulping sobs of loss and sorrow, fear and bewilderment. I was so scared. So alone. We had been so close, a little carbon copy of the woman whose feet were dangling forever in the garage, in my mind.

Thirty years.

I've been a mother longer than my mother mothered me. I consider that a success in my warped way of thinking. All my life I've set mental goals: make it to the age my mother was when she killed herself and I'll be okay. Then it was make it to Scott's sixth Thanksgiving and I'll be okay, Mimi's sixth Thanksgiving.

The kids are 10 and 8 respectively and I'm still not okay. I'll forever be haunted by the loss of my mother, by my own mental demons. Passed on by her? Fostered by her actions? Aided by my abusive childhood? I'll never know.

I got my first tattoo when I was 18. My father told me to get straight As in my senior year and he'd take me to get my first tattoo. I did it and I got my tattoo, an iris in the small of my back, now known as a tramp stamp, but then...not many people got tattoos and it wasn't a common placement.  My dad encouraged the spot as it would not be seen by others and I could have a professional career while hiding my ink.

An iris, so special to me....my middle name. It means Rainbow. My first name means Counselor. I'm a counselor to or of rainbows and it's served me well and true.

Tattoos were secretive to me, something to hide and only show to those you trusted. A hidden oddness about yourself, something that reflected your individuality to the select, chosen few.  Up until recently, all of my tattoos are easily hidden by shirts and slacks, I'll have no problem finding secure employment with my tattoos.

On my 36th birthday I got my first visible tattoo, a semi colon on my wrist. I've been committed twice in my life and have battled with depression and other mental health issues since my early 20s, earlier than that honestly, but my early 20s was when I decided to take on my demons and seek help. While the semi colon tattoo has quickly become trendy and almost trite, to me it's an outwardly visible sign of my struggle and when I'm having a rough mental health day I frequently find myself stroking it with my right thumb. It's become a soother, a worry stone almost in this short time it's been marked on my skin.

Tattoos are meaningful for me. Save for the semi colon tattoo, all of my ink has taken years of consideration and thought.  Over ten years ago I began planning a memorial tattoo for my mother, but I could never cement anything that made me feel that click inside. I'd always wanted something from The Last Unicorn or The Secret of Nimh since those two movies were on more or less constant replay while my dad and sister traveled to my mother's funeral. But nothing from them felt right.

In 2006 I started to learn how to apply henna to skin. I found the process soothing, calming, and centering even in the midst of a miserable marriage. My favorite symbol to draw was the lotus and I never truly understood why. As years passed I read up on the lotus and its meaning in various religions and everything about it resonated with me.

As I approach the thirtieth anniversary of my mother's suicide I cannot say that I am healed. I can say that I forgive, that I understand, and that I have learned lessons that have developed me in strength and character. It's a blemish on my life, but from the muck and dirt I was born into and raised, I have risen from those roots like the lotus flower and bloom, renewed with every day. Though I may close up with each sunset, as the night passes and dawn breaks I will push forth and open my petals to embrace the sun with open arms. I am the embodiment of the lotus and my beauty and spirit shines from the waters of life in which I reside.

My memorial tattoo is visible. I am marked by the tragedy of my mother's feet dangling in the air.  I am marked forever by the scars on my arms and thighs, the scars on my heart. I chose the placement of this tattoo because it is one of the more painful areas to have ink applied. The pain I felt during the process was minimal, in fact it was one of the least painful tattoos I've gotten on my body.  Most of the time I was being inked I had a smile of serene joy on my face because it was another step towards healing as I channeled the pain of that tattoo into releasing the pain I was holding onto from my past. To be honest, that superficial hurt couldn't hold a candle to the emotional pain of my mother's death, the physical pain of my father's abuse, or the mental pain my ex husband inflicted upon me so maybe that's why it wasn't so bad. I walked out of the studio with a sense of purity, and a beautiful lotus etched into my flesh through pain just as my sense of self was forged out of this life of pain.

I am a creature of steel and grace, beautiful yet delicately frail.  Strong and permanent. This tattoo symbolizes all that I have faced and all I have become. I will proudly bear this mark on my flesh until the day I die. I will tell all who ask that it is in memory of my mother who lost the battles I fight daily. It is a mark of my strength, my dignity, and my perseverance of spirit.

It is my light, shining forth from my breast for the world to see.