Everyone has one… some have more than others. But stories put everyone on an even playing field. We all have stories of joy, stories of sorrow. Pain. Love. Pee-in-your-pants laughter. Cry-til-you-vomit breathlessness and hurt.

We choose who we share our stories with, who we allow into our little worlds. We choose who gets to know us at our best and our worst.

And I have been meaning to post this for a long time. I have been meaning to write about this for a long time. But writing one’s story, even pieces of one’s story, is not an easy task.

So I waited… until the time was right… until my muse sang in my ear… until I felt strong, brave, stable, ready.

And I am.

I have tattoos. I love my tattoos. I have three (well, four but the fourth was an addition to the third so I guess that counts as one).

In the middle of the sun tattoo is the first tattoo I ever got; a Chinese symbol that means “to seek.”

I was a sophomore in college, at Auburn University, and months into my recovery process and healing after having been raped.

I am a rape survivor.

What specifically took place to me on the night of September 26, 2000 is not something I am willing to share here, yet. But the fact that I am a rape survivor is.

At that time in my life, I was seeking something, anything, everything… and I found it in the form of a small Chinese symbol etched with an ink-filled needle into the small of my back.

That’s how this story began… and since September of 2000, it has grown, spread, and taken on an identity all its own.

And I am proud.

As my healing continued, so did my love of expression… Self expression. I learned to love my Self again. The love of my life still loved me for my Self, visible/invisible scars and all.

And so years after my own rape, when I worked as a rape victim advocate, I embraced the true survivor in me and got this tattoo…

It is fitting and now almost laughable that “Self” is my maiden name. I promise; it is. I grew up with the “ooohhh, Nicole loves her SELF” jokes as a child.

During a time when I was newly married, having just taken Paul’s last name, I also found myself encouraged, strong, and empowered in a new way.

I went back to my roots. I needed my maiden name on my wrist… my pulse… because at my core, that’s who I am. I am a Self. A self provider, a self lover, a self seeker, looking to affirm one self, my self…

The color that fills “Self” on this wrist tattoo of mine is teal, the nationally recognized color of rape survivors. I love the color, now. It’s beautiful, now… almost 9 years later.

My story, that portion of my story I should say, left its mark on Paul over time. We had been married a few years and he too loves his name, his middle name… Dempsey. It’s a family name, passed down. Strong. Masculine. Proud. And so he chose to express himself and his love of family by tattooing “Dempsey” in Gaelic on the inside of his left bicep. It suits him well.

If you have tattoos yourself, you know that its addicting… it’s like this itch that is never quite satisfied. The itch that you can’t quite reach no matter how much you stretch your arm behind your back and reeeeaaaach to scratch. You kinda get it, it goes away for a bit, and then the itch creeps back.

So the day that Paul got his “Dempsey” tattoo, I asked our tattoo artist (who became a friend) to draw the sun around my Chinese symbol.

I hadn’t thought it through. We went to our tattoo artist/friend with the intention of Paul getting his tattoo… but within minutes of being there, hearing the buzz of the needles, seeing the tubes of Vaseline and strips of gauze, my itch came back.

I love the sun, the light, the warmth. I love when the sun surprises me behind a cloud, poking out to say “hello.” I love that it brings out the freckles I have on my nose. And I love that the sun lights up the darkest parts of my life.

And then comes Jackson… my SON… my SUN. My joy. My strength. My light. My love. And so it was only fitting that his name and birth date be etched in ink on my other wrist, my other pulse.

Because once upon a time, our hearts beat together.

And so that’s where my story in ink ends… begins…

A story is a work of art.