The call comes in late at night. Once again the car is not working. After a bit of chat, the decision is to have it towed to the shop and she can borrow the truck. Her car is old, but she loves it. We pick her up at the shop and take her to the truck which we have given to someone else to use. It is late and we all need sleep.
The next day a trip to the shop gets the work going. Bad spark plugs, bad distributor cap, and bad oil. The air filter is no longer made or stocked, but on this car it is metal, so a good cleaning can be done. Finally the car is ready. She comes by the house for a chat before going down to pick it up. It is then we notice the new tattoo marks. They are on her chest and up on her collar bone. Beautiful work, but no time to talk about it as the car needs to be picked up. She goes to pick it up and then returns to the house before going to work.
We hear more about her tattoo and her boyfriend’s tattoo as well. As I look at and admire it, I find I have questions, but I do not ask. They are not questions for her, but questions I ask myself. When she heads off to work, we talk about it a bit. She now has four tattoos. One she got before going to college. My husband took her in for the first tattoo as a gift to help her get over her fear of needles. It worked. A year later she had another done on her arm. Almost a year after the attempted suicide she had one done on her arm to cover some of the scars left by the cuttings. Now there is this one.
I wonder about her reasons for getting so many. I wonder if she thinks about the impact of having them so visible. I like them, but not everyone else does. I have even been given flack for mine since I am a teacher. Of course none of this I say to her. I just support her decisions and admire the wonderful line work. Hers are all black and white, mine is color.
As I write this I reflect back on the days I would take her to a clinic at our local university to work on her fear of needles. I remember the battles over blood draws and dental work. The fear of needles is gone and I am glad in that she now gets medical procedures done that she needs, but I worry about the attraction to the pain of getting tattoos. I guess the worry goes back to my suspicion that she use to be a cutter. The method she chose to try and end her life on that one fateful night. I think the cutting was her way of dealing with the secret she was keeping from the rest of us. Her secret of the sexual abuse by her dad. Now I wonder—has the tattoo needle replaced the cutting?
I reflect on Neil Young’s song that played an important part of my teen years… “I’ve seen the needle and the damage done… A little part of it in everyone…” The needle here does not do damage, but is it a representation of the damage done by the man she called dad?
I am also a non offending parent, formerly married to a sex offender. I am looking forward to curling up tonight and reading all of your posts. I have yet to have the opportunity to meet another woman that walked in my shoes.
I wanted to Tell you both about this Organization I am beginning to start I have dealt with Abusive fathers for over 20 years in one way or another and KNOW all too well how the system can fail for us – this is just starting and everthing is in a beta form –
I do wonder if you would be interested in helping us in any way possible?
Thank you for you comment and yes, I would be interested in helping. When this all started almost two years ago, I did not find many resources or stories. I am glad to see this change, but it is bittersweet in that it means that there are more cases of innocence lost as well… Keep me posted about what I can do to help etc.