How a tattoo taught me to love my arms

Disclaimer: I am very much writing about my personal experience here and would never claim that my own experiences with tattooing are representative of a wider community.

There have been some very interesting pieces in the Guardian recently about women and tattoos, culminating in Bidisha, in an article last week, likening her tattoos to "socially legitimised self-harm." Some of what she wrote was kind of eye roll (her apparent surprise that the sleeve she got in her 20s was permanent was disingenuous to say the least) but I certainly related to the idea of tattoos as self-harm.  I had four tattoos in my late teens and early twenties and there was - for me - undeniably a link between my self-harm and my tattooing at that point in my life; the endorphin rush of getting a tattoo being virtually identical to the endorphin rush of cutting myself.

The tattoos I have from this time in my life speak of a need to make my mark on myself and on the world. And although I once imbued them with meaning - attempts to demonstrate my independence or to memorialise loss - now they're just marks on my body.  They are neither beautiful works of art nor pieces that enhance my body but, with the exception of the ugly tribal-style armband that snaked around my upper arm (the dark shadow of which you can see under my new one), I'm fine with their existence and generally forget that they're even there.

It was only as I entered my less turbulent 30's that the idea of returning to tattoos occurred to me, and it was really when I visited Portland, Oregon in 2011, and saw the vast range of beautiful body art on show there, that I was able to start thinking about tattoos not as self-harm but as self-adornment.

I spent a couple of years pinning* images I liked and started to narrow down my ideas to something colourful and floral on my right arm.  For years, I have hated my arms and I wanted desperately to improve my body image in relation to them.  Flabby and lacking tone no matter what I do in the gym; covered in keratosis pilaris (small red dots and bumps); scarred in many ways, not least with the terrible tattoo I'd inadvisedly chosen when I was 19, I've spent my entire adult life hiding them and, even in the hottest summers, wearing only clothes that would cover them.  What better way to make my hated arms something I cherished than by following the principle of self-adornment?

The final result is actually not entirely final - there's still some touching up to do around the shoulder - but I bloody love it.  My relationship with that area of my body, so long hated, has changed almost overnight.  Whereas before I used to spend hot days sweating in a cardigan, now I can't wait to bare my arms.  It seems almost facile to say, but by putting something beautiful on my body I've started to believe that that part of my body is beautiful.

I've enjoyed people's reactions to it, too.  Whilst the vast majority of people love my tattoo as much as I do, any negative comment is related to either the fact of my being almost 36, or my being female, or both.  Whilst there is nothing unusual or revolutionary about tattoos nowadays, something about the combination of my age and my gender has led to some interesting responses, from "Aren't you a bit old for that kind of thing?" and "I'd have hoped you'd grown out of this by now," to, "I like tattoos but they're not very feminine, are they?"

And so, in answer to those questions:
I actually think that, if anything, I'm only now finally old enough for them.
Sorry mum, but although my hard partying days are long behind me, I haven't yet grown out of "that kind of thing".
Fuck feminine.

*Actually, this is a lie.  I've never got to grips with Pinterest, but saying "saving to my favourites folder" doesn't have quite the same ring to it.