I got my first set of ear piercings at age seven. My sister and I begged our mom for years to take us to Claire’s to get our ears pierced. All of our friends got their ears pierced when they were babies, so why couldn’t we? My sister cried before the gun pierced her ear; I barely flinched. When we got home and showed off our diamond studs to our dad, he tried to take the piercings out prematurely to change the earring. That ultimately failed, so he shoved the earring in his ear without the hole he made when he was drunk in high school. We were officially a family with pairs of pierced ears.

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Both of my parents like earrings. My mom has her regular piercings, not opting for more because of her attached earlobes and it wasn’t her “look.” Like I said, my dad had one ear pierced because his buddies thought they were funny, but I think he regretted it. Piercings were okay, an accepted bodily change.

 

Both parents talked about tattoos frequently, claiming that if they could have gotten one, they would have. This upset me as a child. I was raised to believe from my family, movies, and society that tattoos indicated that you were a badass, scary, biker person. Even an episode of Spongebob Squarepants included the Salty Spitoon where tough guys had to have a tattoo. Every family friend or relative told me about a tattoo they have and hate: Eeyore on a foot, a pegasus on a shoulder blade, a chili pepper tramp stamp. Seeing the faded ink on wrinkly, worn out skin made the idea of something so permanent something so heinous to me. This caused such a negative connotation about tattoos for me growing up that when we were at Disney World and my dad joked about getting a Henna tattoo, I cried and begged him not to, not realizing that Henna wasn’t permanent.

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I think I first realized I wanted my tattoo in eighth grade. That was the year that my depression really manifested. It felt like no matter what I did to make my life better, negative things just kept occurring to me. I wanted a tattoo to represent that there is good and bad in life; it just depends on how you look at it. I think I also wanted a tattoo because it would finally be something constant in my life. I found the symbol “:(:” which perfectly represented how I could view problems in my life. I tested the waters, telling my parents that if I got a tattoo, it would be that. They laughed and told me that if I did, I would be disowned for “defacing my body.”

 

I got the tattoo October 18, 2020 without telling my parents.

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After a month of hiding it under sleeves and bracelets, my dad finally found the small tattoo on my wrist when I stretched out on our couch. He was disappointed that I didn’t tell him right away but ultimately didn’t care as long as I could cover it in professional settings. I reassured him that, when I am a doctor, it will be covered by a watch, sleeve, or latex gloves. Relief never really took over my body after my confession; some guilt infested my body knowing that I had something permanently on my body that would be judged by others whether it’s family, friends, or patients. Some days, I even catch myself staring at the tattoo, rubbing it as if it would wear off. Yet, a part of me wants more, wanting to defy society’s taboo for tattoos. My dad told me he’d disown me if I defaced my body more, even if the tattoo is dedicated to my family, but what he won’t know won’t hurt him.

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Altering my body is something that I always wanted to do. I liked the piercings, the tattoos, the hair dye; I yearned to change myself completely. Maybe it’s a result of my mental illness and crippling insecurity, or maybe it’s just the older child complex of wanting to rebel.

 

I changed myself a lot over the 21 years of my life, however only some changes have been accepted by society. I got my ears pierced: three piercings in my right ear and two in my left. Accepted and not entirely permanent, as cartilage can grow back. Braces were glued to my crooked, backwards teeth for years on end. Also accepted, also not permanent. My hair was cut and colored more times than I can count. All of these alterations are acceptable, if not encouraged, by society and can be reversed. My other bodily alterations, however, not so much.

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Besides the tattoo, my most permanent alteration is a nose job that received some praise and backlash from people I told. It was partly medical, as I broke my nose freshman year of high school from attempting to hurdle a doggy gate, but when the ENT asked if I wanted my nose shaved down a bit, I accepted. I had a larger nose, thanks to my mom, and was frequently picked on for it. It was thin and had a huge hump; I often compared it to a bird’s beak and others did, too.

 

When I visited an ENT three years later to get my nose fixed, I was thrilled when he offered to alter it. At the same time, I was terrified. I didn’t want people to judge me for getting a nose job, even if it was mostly for medical reasons. I ended up proceeding with the surgery and my peers barely even noticed that anything was different. Now, when I tell my new college friends, I am presented with a bit of shock and judgment. There is never explicit criticism, but I can see it on their faces, hear it in their voices when they say, “Oh, you had a nose job?”

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I am a person who often feels uncomfortable in her own skin. My bodily alterations help me to feel slightly more comfortable, but there are days of regret. I look at pictures of my old nose and wonder if I would have opted for a cosmetic surgery if I hadn’t broken it. Like I stated before, I rub my tattoo, sometimes wishing I had gotten something else, something less childish. When stabbing my earrings in, I consider if I will be taken seriously as a doctor in the future because of them or if I will force them to heal.

 

At the end of the day, I am glad I changed my appearance to reflect my inner self as much as possible, but my fear of being judged by others can override, as my intrusive thoughts upon meeting someone jump to judgment instead of compliment. The fear also fuels my fire, tempting me to change more.