Tattoo tear drops.
I have cried with every tattoo he has gotten, because truthfully I love my husband but I don’t love what he does to his body.
The truth is…
I am not a fan.
As you can already tell from the title of this truth, tears have been shed — and not just by the girl, lady, moon witch, woman (whatever she is—honestly, I don’t think my husband even knows). I’ve shed tears too, and this isn’t the first time. There have been a few moments where I’ve cried (have you seen him?). Some of those moments have been uglier than others. I’ll also confess that not all the tears have been vulnerable—there’s been some heated anger dished out too, I remember his first tattoo. Unaware of what he had decided to do, I arrived at his house, where he proceeded to show me. I then locked myself in a bedroom for hours, cursing and crying. I was not a happy girlfriend.
Here’s what it is for me:
I love my husband, but I don’t love what he does to his body. I know he sees his tattoos as his form of art, and I guess if that’s the case, art is an open forum for judgment. Some pieces are loved, some are loathed. In this case, from my perspective, it’s loathed. If it were on a canvas, in a frame, or hanging on a wall, the art he’s chosen could be adored. But it’s not. It’s on his body, and that’s permanent—never to go away or be changed. It’s final.
Is this where I now say sorry, but not sorry?
Again, I love my husband, and he’s always reminding me that his tattoos don’t change who he is. While yes, they change how he looks, he’s still Glen. And while I know this, my rebuttal is to remind him that he’s still pursuing something that makes me uncomfortable. I try to use the analogy of how he’d feel if I kept changing my facial features with lifts, fillers, or plastic surgery. I use this example because he’s often shared that he’s not a fan of those things. His answer to that: He has none.
I often wonder, why haven’t I come to terms with this by now? I admit, I’m getting much better. The anger has subsided. There are still tears, but not as many. And my sulking? Well, it only lingers for a short while—not days or weeks (true story, I would hold onto it for a while!). But still, it somehow stirs my emotions. I even say to him through my tears, “In the end, as long as it makes you happy and you’re happy, that’s all that matters. It’s not my body to have, control, or keep—it’s yours.” Logically, I think it, but strangely, my emotional reaction doesn’t always follow.
What’s even stranger is that recently, my eldest daughter got her first tattoo, and I felt completely neutral about it. Then, what’s even weirder (and may blow your mind) is that I, myself, have one! Yes, ironically, I have a very small, hidden tattoo. In fact, I got mine before Glen ever did! Crazy as that may sound, in truth, it’s not the tattoo that’s the issue. Honestly, I don’t know what it is.
All I know is that I’m still rubbing cream on his back three times a day. And trust me, with every application, I’m reminded of how it all makes me really feel —just without the tears. Now, it’s replaced with a disgruntled gruff and eye roll as he talks about the next tattoo, while this one is still peeling!
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