My Mother Hates My Tattoos

Here’s why getting them helped me reclaim my body

My mother hates tattoos. I’ve always been drawn to them. The art and the very personal form of expression. I waited until I was almost in my 40s to get my first one.

My mother tells me that I look like a hussy and a two-bit whore; she reminds me anytime she sees them that I’ve reduced myself to “trash.” She’s concerned that 30 or 40 years from now, they will be wrinkly and look even more terrible.

I took her hurtful criticism as her way of looking out for me. I told myself it was just her generation and the stigma of tattoos. I said to myself that she believed the tattoos would reflect back on her poorly. People (strangers) would think her daughter was trash, and they’d think she was too. But now I realize that isn’t the reason either.

My mother raised me to be “good.” Her version of it, anyway. I was raised to be polite, I was raised to be obedient (to her), never to speak up, and to put everyone else’s needs, happiness, and comfort above my own. She raised me to be loyal and tolerant of her abuse and everyone else’s.

To be liked, loved, accepted, valuable, worthy, and safe, I needed to be quiet, sweet, feminine, delicate, and agreeable, no matter how much I was being hurt or harmed. Then I was to smile and pretend none of it ever happened.

Growing up, she controlled my hair, clothing, what activities I participated in, who my friends were, and how I spent all my time. Everything I did “wrong” was all my fault; anything I did “right” was due to her parenting.

Nothing about me was really me. Nothing about me was mine, not even my body.

I realize now that I wasn’t her daughter- I was her “owned” property. I wasn’t her beloved daughter; I was a possession.

If I make changes without her permission, she reacts like I’ve deeply betrayed her. I’m no longer “good”- I’m trash and unworthy and punished with insults or silent treatment, depending on the day.

What she doesn’t realize (or maybe she does) is that she prevented me from forming my identity. She stopped me from feeling like any part of myself had anything to do with me. As a possession, I am only as valuable as my usefulness. I’m only worthy as an object to be admired for my “goodness.”

I was groomed to ignore my own thoughts and opinions. I was groomed to ensure everyone around me was happy, even if I was screaming in pain inside. My survival, in many ways, depended on it.

Men through nearly every age and stage of my life have hurt, harmed, and taken advantage of how “good” my mother had raised me to be. Everything that happened I believed was my fault; I must have done something to warrant their entitlement and attention. I smiled through uncomfortable conversations I didn’t want to participate in. I said nothing when older men touched me inappropriately. I didn’t come forward for any abuse, sexual harassment, assaults, or rape, because I would complicate their life. They ignored my “no’s and stops,” but it was never surprising that they did- my mother had taught me my voice wasn’t worth listening to.

I wasn’t permitted to have boundaries. I didn’t even know I had a right to set them.

I’m learning to set them now. I’m learning to speak up and use my voice. I realize I needn’t be “good” to have value. It’s been a ton of hard work to get where I am.

My tattoos tell a story, and they all deeply define me. I love their design. I endured the pain to get them. But what do I love about them more than anything?

They remind me that my body and my choices - belong to me.