Tag Archives: life

Tattoos and Suicide Series: The break(ing) of me

So I have been running and not taking a break. I have been struggling my way through explosive meltdowns, tantrums, blackout rages, and frustration.  I felt it this week. I was there. Lost in the hole in my heart and in my head. Wanting something, anything to fill the void. I was hurting but I had and still have NO idea why. I am the one who always finds the sunshine. But right now. I just don’t know how much more I can take before I break myself. I tried to leave. I packed all my stuff. And I started to walk away. Because not only am I now dealing with this pain, his pain and my own, I am losing my shit on our son. He deserves the very best me and lately all he has is the worst. I am really trying and I knew the road ahead would be tough. But still, I could not have been prepared for the rollercoaster this has been. I have days where I walk on eggshells, I can’t really TALK to him anymore. Because he can’r remember anything, and he stresses out so easily.

And in all of this, I am losing myself. I know this because of an injury my son recently got. He fell and hit his head. It was an ER worthy injury. I prepared to be mommy and do it all when a little voice said to me “I want dad instead please” and my heart shattered into a million pieces. I was so happy he has accepted our new routine. I work 35 to 40 hours a week at 3 jobs to keep us going right now, KP does all the homeschooling and most of the parenting) But him not wanting me, and him being more afraid of how I would react about him not wearing his helmet than his injured head made me see I am on a spiral I need to get in check.

About every 4 or 5 years I have a break. A serious fuck it all snap out. Usually I know it is coming, and usually I can plan and prepare for it. Usually I can see the warning signs. But once, I couldn’t. On that day, my ex came home to hear shattering glass, and he followed the trail of broken plates, cups, mugs, and pottery on a trail to the basement. It was flecked with ketchup, and he thought it was blood. I never was allowed to buy glass ketchup bottles again. I had broken every single piece of glassware in the house. It was everywhere. I was sitting at the bottom of the basement steps staring at nothing. I had no idea what had happened. I was just. There. I don’t remember much about that day. It was one of the few times my ex did something decent. He cleaned me up, cleaned the glass, bought us all new plastic dishes. I worry now, watching my husband. Seeing his black outs. Feeling his anger when he can’t stop the mood swing. I do not worry he will hurt us. Thanks to the nerve disease, he has no strength to do so. But I do worry terribly about what will happen if I snap back.

I have a child now. I have too much to be thankful for. But I feel like I am being come at in a million directions. I feel like I have no control over this situation, and even though I seemingly live my life like a humming bird, I do in fact have a rhyme and reason. I do think things through and plan and manage. But I can not control this. And that scares the hell out of me. Meds help. But he is still so unstable. I also worry one day I will find him gone. He says he is no longer suicidal, Hurricane needs him. Great. But what about the days he feels like a burden since he can’t contribute to the house? What about the days he can not even get out of bed?  I am tired of being scared. And tired of being so wrapped up in my worries for him that my son is getting the heat.

I hit my break today with Hurricane. He got mouthy about me asking him to change his shirt because what he had on was not ok for being out today. He snapped at me and eye rolled, the whole 9 yards. So I told him he could stay with his dad and he lost it. Grabbed me and sobbed like he would never see me again. I wanted to and needed to stick to my guns. But I saw this broken little face. Who I could read was saying he needed me. The old me. The fun me. I just need to figure out how to be super wife and take care of my husband while also being super mom again. I just hope I can make my cape big enough to do both.

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A mother who doesn’t love her son…

Hurricanes birth story. It was a series of ups and downs and insanity. It started when I found out I was pregnant. The immediate sick feeling I had in my stomach pretty much summed it up. Not happiness. More real. What in the actual FUCK am I getting myself into? And how the hell did this happen?

REWIND: January, 1998
A very young me sits in a hospital gown, freezing half to death. She can hear the doctor and nurses talking in the hall in hushed whispers, and her boss has paged her 3 times. She has been having major troubles with her uterus, and the pain had her scared she might have been having a miscarriage. Which would be a neat trick since she was not having sex with anyone. Finally, the doctor walks in. He has a really peculiar look on his face. The nurse will not look her in the eye.

“Go ahead and get dressed, the exam was fine. But we will have to go over a few things.” he says.
“I will be late for work, just tell me while I get dressed behind the curtain, please”
“I really…”
“Doctor- please! I need to go to work!”
*big sigh from the doctor*
” The procedure went well, [Nix], but… I am afraid I have some bad news. There was a significant amount more damage and scar tissue than we anticipated. If you ever decide to have children, you are going to find it very difficult, if not impossible to conceive and carry a child…”
“And?” says the foolish young 20 year old me. “Who’s worried about kids right now?”

Fast forward: March 2001
Miscarriage. How did I have a miscarriage? What’s a DNC? I am not even supposed to be able to get pregnant. How can I have had a miscarriage?

Fast forward:  May 17, 2006
*dials phone* “Hey sis? I need you to come over….Because I have to take a pregnancy test. Yes I am serious. My period is late. It’s probably nothing. I don’t want to tell him yet. He will flip. We have a 5 year plan! And I am not even supposed to be able to get pregnant!”
…..3 hours later….
This can’t be right. I go for my surgery consult next week. I will have them test me.

May 24:
Surgical consult time. Gall stones be damned they are coming out. Pregnancy test? No need. I can’t get pregnant. Required test for all women? OK whatever, give me the cup.  “WHAT DO YOU MEAN I AM PREGNANT?!?!?!?!?”

January 30, 2007:
Induction at 5 AM, still in labor at 5:30 PM. In walks my doctor, and he looks scared to talk to me. “So. There is good news and bad news!  Good- since I broke your water, you are having this baby today.”
“And the bad?”
*Awesome Doctor slowly backs out of the room ready to run* “My shift is over and [Bitch from Hell Doctor is my relief]

Sidenote: BFH doctor told me at my 4 month checkup I was morbidly obese and should have waited to get pregnant, and since I was already pregnant it was too late, but I needed to gain no more than 18 pounds my entire pregnancy. My husband was and still is a BIG dude. How can I have HIS linebacker child and gain only 18 pounds? I hated her. And now she was going to be the one to deliver my baby.

*In strolls BFH. Does cursory exam of my nethers*
“You are not progressing, and the baby is in distress. We are going in for a cesarean. These are the risks, sign this waiver, lets go”

Why isn’t he crying? The cord was around his neck several times. He was slightly blue. They wouldn’t bring him to me. I was in panic mode. He wasn’t crying. My mom looked worried but kept telling me he was fine. Then I heard it. The loud scream. They brought him to see me, and I looked deep into the eyes of my newborn son. And felt…nothing. Like it was just another day. When my husband came in for the first time to see us, to see him, he looked so happy. This look of pure joy to see his son. I felt…nothing.

Week 1- in the hospital. I had setbacks. Spinal headaches. Some infection they could not control. I could not breastfeed and the feeding Nazi was in my room telling me I HAD to nurse. I HAD to feed. It didn’t matter that I was sobbing uncontrollably, telling her even the pump on the lowest setting made me want to scream in holy hell pain. My son was a delight according to the care team. Nurses held and snuggled and cooed and fought over holding him. Family came and held him. I did some. I tried bonding. Skin to skin. Tried to not let the BF Nazi upset me. My savior. Nurse Babs. (Real name) She came in as I was crying and upset, not holding my son, because I was in so much pain. Feeling like a failure because in all honesty, I hurt. And breast feeding was the farthest thing from my mind. I wanted to love and hold my son. I wanted to care. And I felt.. nothing.

Week 2- We are home. We are getting into a routine. He screams, he eats, he pukes, he screams again. He never sleeps. He screams and screams. I feel… nothing. Wait. I feel something. I feel anger. Resentment. Frustration. He won’t. Stop. Screaming. He is broken. I want a new one. That is cute and doesn’t scream and throw up everything he eats and make me feel like hell. I kind of wish I never worried about him not crying in the delivery room.

Week 8- The only time he does not scream and actually sleeps is when he takes a nap in the sun next to the cat. I lay him on his belly on a blanket by the sliding glass door, while the cat snoozes out on the balcony, he snoozes inside. The only way he will sleep is sitting up or on his belly. I have told the pediatrician 20 times I think he has reflux but am rebuffed and told it is “colic” and will get better. He starts to scream at 4 PM and by 11 PM he has not stopped. King Pig has awesomely put away the clean dishes before he left for his night shift. Which includes the babies bottles, which are missing and he will NOT stop screaming. I try to hold him one armed and slam cabinets open and shut looking for the bottles with my other hand. My neighbor bangs/knocks hard on the wall. I am loud. I am bothering her. I am SO angry, I take the cabinet door and I open and slam it over and over about 10 times. I am done. I finally find the bottles and make him one. He spits almost the entire thing up. In desperation, I lay him on his belly in the bassinet. It is 1 AM. I am exhausted. He settles and dozes off. I do too, my hand on his back as he sleeps. I am awakened by the sound of my husbands heavy footsteps.
“Hey honey! How was your night?” he says
“A million times better since you are home. Please watch him for a few minutes. I need to sleep.  I am so glad you got off work early.”
“Honey, what are you talking about? It’s 7:22 AM!”

And then. I felt it. Something. I felt an overwhelming horrifying panic. I was gripped with the biggest wave of choking emotion I have ever felt, even still to this day. I sat straight up in the bed, and shouted “Oh my god the baby!!” and looked over at the bassinet. Where he was sleeping soundly. And right then. I finally felt it. That wave of emotion that they say a new mother should have. I looked at my sleeping son. Who had finally stopped crying and slept several hours. I watched his back rise and fall, and realized he wasn’t dead.  And I bawled. I cried so hard I peed. King Pig had no idea what to make of it, so he just wrapped me in a hug and let me snot all over his shirt. But I finally felt it. I was so connected to him in that moment, I could feel every breath he took inside my heart.  And now, I feel it daily.

I feel it when he calls me in his sleep. When he falls, when he fails, when he succeeds. When his night terrors grip him. When he watches for me anxiously out the window if my afternoon shift turns into a night shift and I see his little face peeking out watching to see if I am home yet. When he has a meltdown because the situation has overwhelmed him and the world won’t stop moving when he needs it to be still. When he comes to me with his grubby face and fist and no pants. When he argues with me, eye rolls, when he brings me he 3957th Lego creation that he has made, when he goes on endlessly about Minecraft. When he has a flash of anger and lashes out. When he bounces in my room way to early and hollers out “HI MOM!!!!!”  When he lays in his bed asleep. I feel it.  But it took some time. We had hurdles to cross. We had to build that bond. Maybe that makes me a bad mom. To not feel this overwhelming sense of emotion. But the reality is, love in any capacity is not an automatic thing. Love is built. Even from birth. I didn’t love him then. But now, my love has no description. No end to its capacity. New moms, know, it’s not always automatic. But it will come. In it’s time. And you will love every minute of it. But please know. It’s not horrible to feel or not feel. Let the love grow until you can not let go. ❤


It was not supposed to happen…

Once, a long time ago, a young woman had a major problem. And the doctors told her she probably could not get pregnant. For years she moved on and let it not weigh on her mind. God’s plan was obviously not children. But that was ok. She was living and loving a life of raising other peoples babes. Nanny work was rewarding, and gave her the outlet for her love and energy. Then, the same woman met the love of her life at a wedding of all places, and they dated for a short bit.

Her future husband knew within 3 days it was meant to be. It took her about 22 months longer to think about it. During that 22 months, they discussed family. She told him about her problem, that babies might not be in it, and he loved her anyway. Then, they made a 5 year plan. Save up, get married, buy a house, find out if there is any chance the whole pregnancy thing would change. Fast forward to around Mother’s Day of 2006. They had been married for about 10 months (1 month from the “official” wedding, as they sneaked off and eloped before that April day.) The same woman is now worrying, because its that monthly “time” but nothing has happened yet. The last time this happened she was rushed to the hospital. She worries more. She calls a friend who asks her if she might be pregnant. But that was impossible. Right?

And even if it was, this was NOT part of the 5 year plan. Her husband was a planner. He was going to freak out. But she took a test anyway.. Then called a doctor. Yes she was. Honeymoons are magical. But something didn’t look right. So they waited to tell the family. Once they knew for sure it was OK, they told their moms first. But the moms we told they might not be grandma’s. It was still scary. They waited until Father’s Day to tell the dads. It was a great plan. “Happy Father’s Day Grandpa” cards were bought. Her father got it first. And started to cry. He knew she was maybe not going to be able to have children. And he also was very sick. He was so happy to know he might get to hold a grandchild. His father took longer to figure it out. Thought the card was an “old man” joke.

In the midst, her father’s condition worsened. Just 3 months to go. And her father sunk into a coma. She went to the hospital against everyone’s advice. She waiting until she knew her mom would not be there to stop her. She went to the ICU. The nurses tried to stop her. But she begged one nurse to please let her go. She needed to talk to her father. So she suited up in a full biohazard suit and mask. She stood by his bedside. And told him he had to fight. He had to wake up and hold his grandson and teach him all the things he needed to know about cars. Trains. And music. And a miracle happened. His vitals went crazy. His heart accelerated, The doctors were shocked. Because he woke up. Her father told her when he woke up he knew she had been there. He remembered it.

He wondered if it had been a dream. He told her.  In his head he was screaming at her. To take this unborn child away from the germy hospital and to keep the baby to be safe.  And then, after a pregnancy fraught with back labor, gall stones, and endless worry, a “Hurricane” entered the world. He came in fighting. It was not his idea to come. The cord went around his neck so many times. He didn’t cry. She panicked. Her mom told her it would be ok. But the hushed whispers told her the doctors were worried. A handful from the start. But then he screamed. Then just as suddenly as he started, he stopped, and he calmed. He was looking at her. She held him in her arms and she smiled. She thought about him. Her son. He started out on his own drummer. When it was time to eat he slept when it was time to sleep he ate. He set his own tune. And she went along with every single one of his differing beats. He made his own way and decisions. He seemed, even as an infant, to relish in challenging her. He spent 5 straight months screaming. He walked when he decided he wanted to. He potty trained when he decided he wanted to. He went from not reading to whole books just because he decided he was ready. He set his own pace and still does. He brings calm and chaos every step of the way and lives up to his nickname of Hurricane. Every morning she wakes up and thinks “Holy crap. I am a mom.” And it blows her mind. Every year for the last 7 she has had the joy, on the second Sunday of May, to relish in being part of this day. And it is amazing. She is stressed, happy, sad, mad, fierce, tender, silly, serious, and overwhelmingly joyful. All at once. All because she has been given the chance to be a mom.


The Challenge Awaits… but will anyone join me?

I realized something painful the other day. I have spun into negativity and it is wearing off on my son. I used to be a glass half full kind of girl. I then became an “At least I have a glass” girl. But then, the glass shattered, and lately I have lost my way. I scan newsfeeds on Facebook and I see so much pain. So much sadness. So much anger. And it consumes me. I comment. “How DARE HE say that to you?” I am instantly sucked in. “She is such a ________”. I get pissed off when something happens and I post it. And I have become an “Excuser” I make excuses or blame the world. I rant on twitter or FB. Or call a friend. “What the front door was he thinking? That guy is a douche and because of his bad driving I am late”  (Because me leaving the house in no particular hurry had NOTHING to do with it, honest!)

Then I met a woman who gave me the inspiration to change. I was early to pick up my son from the halfway point between my moms and home. All I focused on was getting him and rushing home in time to watch my football game. I was annoyed with the fact we were cutting it so close to watching the game, not thinking about the fact my mom has not seen her grandson in 3 months.

I made great time, and as I came off the exit ramp of the highway I saw a much older lady (I later found out she was 73) trying to cross the very busy road with her arms laden with groceries. In my head I was thinking, she is going to get hit. So I did what any normal person SHOULD do but what probably 30 other people had not.  I stopped traffic and insisted she get in my van and let me drive her across the street. She would have had to cross a 6 lane road with people doing an average of 60 and 2 blind spots and a hill.  With people laying on their horns behind me I stopped and refused to move, until she got in. She refused at first. “Oh no dear, I am fine”  But I insisted.  I just knew in my gut if I did not pick this woman up, she would be on the news as a lost angel. I figured seeing my soccer madness (I coach and the backseat was full of ball bags and cone clutter), my yoga pants and messy hair, she decided I didn’t look like a murderer, and she got in. I asked her where she lived, and ended up taking her all the way home. She told me to leave her at the corner, and I told her I was taking her to the door.  I drove her into a neighborhood my friend KT told me I was insane to have been in. KT’s direct words were “Now I KNOW you are a crazy ass cracker redneck, who can handle herself like a hoodrat, but I don’t even go into that part of town, and I would fit in. You done lost your mind momma!”  And when I dropped her off she said something to me that really hit home. She told me she sometimes wondered if there is still good people with good hearts in the world. She knew there were, but lately everyone is so caught in their own lives, we seem to forget others are out there. And her daughter would never believe she was sent an angel. That hit me hard. I realized, she was right. She kept trying to pay me, asking if I needed anything. I told her to please just pay it forward. Do something kind for someone else. I realized, too, it was time for me to shift my thinking. I went into that day focused on rushing by. Instead, I need to slow down. And I need to focus on avoiding the negative. KT and I chatted as I worked my way back out of the neighborhood, and that is when we came up with a ten day challenge. I decided, with the two of us having such a great fanbase it was time to get others on board. So here is my challenge to you… (As posted to my Facebook Page)

Start a positive revolution with me! It’s officially the DAY. Our challenge will start today. (It’s 1 AM my time. Lets roll with it!) I have decided to start a mini-movement. Join me in the Mom-T for Drama Free for Positivity challenge! (Part 1, ten day challenge)

I am challenging my fans, all 9,459 of you (or the average 900 who actually see my posts) to go DRAMA and Negativity free and do positive things for the next 10 days. Its a hell of a lot harder than you might think. Because those every day annoyances can add up.

Rules and Parts of the Challenge:
1) No negative facebook postings/vents to friends/ commentary when life throws you lemons. Instead, try to find a way to make life take the lemons back. That guy in front of you is a brake happy asshat? He is slowing you down enough to see the cloud shaped like a bear giving a hug to a kitten. Kid spilled milk all over the kitchen table? Its a chance to show him/her responsibility and have them assist in cleaning it up, and at least your phone/laptop wasn’t in the puddle! Dog threw up in your shoes? Again? At least he is not eating them. Etc. And if the urge to vent comes, swallow it, and move on.

2) If someone posts drama, IGNORE IT. Do not comment. Do not LIKE. IGNORE AND MOVE ON. If someone tags you into drama, just remove the tag. And move ON.

3) Pay it forward EVERY SINGLE DAY during the challenge. Help an elderly person load their groceries into the car. Buy the next guy in line his Starbucks. Give to your local charity, or my personal favorite (my son did this once) Make smile face cards and hand them out to random people just to make their day a little better.

4) Write 3 REAL LETTERS and MAIL THEM in the US MAIL to a friend or relative. It can be someone you see all the time, or a lost relative. But send someone something that will brighten their day, besides a bill!

5) Disconnect time: Set aside at least ONE HOUR DAILY that is not time you would/should be sleeping to go wired free. NO internet. No cell phone, no distractions. Shut it down, read a book, play a game with your kids, visit a neighbor. Go for a walk. Meditate. But NO distractions! My time will be from 7 to 8 PM. If my friends who are on here catch me posting, liking, or commenting, call me out on it. 🙂

6) Reconnect time: Pick 4 people you have lost touch with and send them a note or give them an out of the blue call.

7) Spread the word- the more people you challenge to do this with you, the further this will reach. And the more people you will have to hold you accountable. So. If you are doing this with me, share it, and if you pledge to join me, comment below


Birthdays in Heaven and Two Years of Tears (Tattoos and Suicide Part V)

I have been struggling to cope since my father passed away. I never really had time to grieve.   Today he would have been 61. Why is 61 hitting me so much harder than last year and 60? Because I am a glutton for self-punishment and refuse to show weakness to my family and anyone other than my closest friends.  I even wrote my first blog about it.  I can tell you why… with the sudden unexpected death of my father in law subsequent family based downward spiral, life has not slowed down enough for me to really let go of the emotions.  I have been raging with emotions since my husbands suicide attempt back in January.

To compound my raging emotions and my pain from my father being gone, my son is a mini version of my father. Its scary really how much alike he is to his grandfather. He is gregarious, outgoing, outspoken, and stubborn. He is funny and annoying and loving and sometimes vindictive. He is a mini version of my father, and thereby a mini version of me. I see myself fighting with my son the way I used to with my own dad. Pushing him 5 steps forward to have him bulldozing me three steps back. Setting an agenda and him setting his own pace. I think that is what has made this pain so much more real and so much harder.  I think since we are settling into our new temporary home and our new routine I am finally allowing myself to feel. And I hate it. I f***ing HATE it. I hate feeling the tears. I hate showing weakness. I am the backbone. I hate it. But I guess it is time for me to face it. So here we go.

Two years of tears cried out in a few days time. Feeling pain and owning it as mine.
Searching for answers inside of my soul. Pushing back pain and feeling un-whole.

Days go by, smiles come and fade. Telling the sadness to go, but not being obeyed.
Feeling him daily right by my side, so much more to have said before he had died.

Raising a miniature version of him inside his grandson,
and reliving as a parent, fights as a child I never won.

His birthday is here, though it’s come and gone before,
this season the pain seems overwhelmingly more.

Each moment my son falters, each time we have fights,
I remember similar battles with my father on insomnia filled nights.

A mini version of my father in my son’s smiling face
A heart loving too much for one tiny space.

Birthdays in heaven. It’s too far away.
Two years of tears now flowing, in just a few days.


Tattoo and Suicide, Part II: More than just you

This is part 2 of a series I am writing in regards to my husbands attempt at suicide and how it has impacted our family. Part one can be found by following this link: https://momtroversial.wordpress.com/2013/01/24/the-tattoo-that-saved-a-life/ Thanks for reading, and for the support.

On this journey of healing for King Pig, so much has changed. A suicide attempt. I still can not recover from this. I admit it. I partially place blame on myself. How did I miss the signs? How did he hide this from me? His WIFE? His partner and best friend? Life has literally been uprooted and stood on end. Every expression he makes now may have a hidden meaning. Every day I have to leave him alone to go to interviews or to work I worry and wait and worry some more. Outpatient is complete and now we are down to bi weekly visits to a doctor. But I worry. Is that enough? Are the medicines really working or is he putting on a show? He hid it from me for so long. His turmoil. His pain. I can not let it go. I am scared to leave the healing in his hands. But deep down I know it is HIS hands that must heal himself. His and the hands of God that reminded him what he has to live for. But now, the doubts. The questioning. WHY is he still here? I can  not figure this out. My brain won’t slow down. His won’t either. But that is part of what got him here.

Me: Can I get you anything?
KP: Nope, I am just feeling a little tired.

Twenty minutes later… he is starting blankly at the TV and makes a funny face.

What’s wrong honey?
Nothing! Why?
You made a face…
So, I made a face. Whats the big deal?
Well you looked like you wanted to say something. Whats going on in your head right now?
Nothing! Can’t I just make a face?

Its been such a struggle for us, and to top it off now, he is having some medical issues. He is not going to be returning to work.  Now what? How do we adjust? How will we make it? Why is he looking so sad today? I caught him the other night in a very truthful mood. He told me sometimes he still wishes the suicide had worked. He feels like with his new disability he is more a burden. I wish I could help him see how much he means to me and how much I really and truly need him.

One thing about all this that is interesting. Our marriage has gotten stronger. He finally sees all I did and still do for our family. He admits when he misses me. He admits if I was not around, he would be lost in how to handle some of the simple stuff.  But he also loathes the fact I have to do so much. The fact I sometimes need to be reminded to manage all his medications because the doctors suggested it would be best if I kept them all under lock and key and monitor how many we have of OTC stuff I leave out. He hates the way the therapist looks at him when he gets really worked up over something because she touches a nerve, how I can be such a bitch because I am tired as hell all the time, and how I practically treat him like a child.

I hate not knowing if I can leave him alone. I hate worrying every time he gets home late that he stopped to “finish the job” and wondering how I am going to make it if he is not here with me. I hate knowing I almost lost a part of me and feeling like I am somehow a little to blame, for not pushing it further and making him talk about his feelings. I hate knowing he does not trust anyone enough to just let go and let it all out. Because he is scared he will end up “locked away” again.

I love knowing he is now around to raise my son and I am heartbroken and yet relieved when my baby boy says he wants daddy to kiss his boo-boo better instead, but I could at least get a band-aid out for daddy. I am missing my old life of comfort and facebook and lunches with friends and part time work, and playing all day with my boy and sometimes loathing endless doctors appointments. And in the middle of it all I have a tumor. Which could be cancer. Joy. What could possibly be next?


The tattoo that saved a life… Tattoos and Suicide Part I

For every bad thing ever said about a tattoo, I always defended the form of self expression. And from this day forward will never tolerate hearing any malice towards the art form or those who perform it. All because of this.  A tattoo saved my husbands life.  A simple tat. Just a name, just an arm. And it saved his life.

Long time followers of my Facebook page are aware, we are personal friends with some amazing tattoo artists. A family run operation, our friends Shane, Samm, Vicki, and Athena run Thurmont Tattoo, located in Thurmont, Maryland. When they were local to us, we would have them over for dinner, have home tattoo sessions, stop by the shop just to say hello. We still call them to celebrate our family triumphs, our tragedies  and our best and worst moments. Over the years, they became not only our ink artists, but friends, and now they feel like a part of our family. They are perceptive, warm, loving, and amazing. And they gave my husband the tattoo that saved his life…

My story… After work, two weeks ago. 

13 missed calls? How did I get 13 missed calls? What on earth could be wrong? From her cell phone? Oh lord. She is in the hospital again. Oh god, maybe it is my husband. His breathing is not much better since he got the bronchitis. He was supposed to start his night shift again.  Please god let him have made it to work alright. Calling her. Straight to voicemail. Why? Try again. Straight to voicemail again.  Ok. Call his work. He called out sick. Maybe the bronchitis got worse. They tell me his mom called and said something about the hospital. Ok, so he is in the hospital. Call my roommate to see if he can watch Hurricane. Mid call. Call waiting. Oh god it is mom. Let him be ok. 

Hello? Mom? What’s going on? At the Emergency Room? Why? But? He did what? Wait? WHAT? How? No mom, I am not ok hearing this. Well I will be. Will they let me see him? He is where? I mean WHICH emergency room?  But how? And he called you? OK I am on the way.

Suicide. He attempted suicide? But why? How could I have missed the signs? How is he doing? How will we recover as a family? What will this do to our family unit? Is he going to be ok? How did I miss it? He seemed fine. Tired. Stressed. But he just recently started to see a therapist. She put him on a medication. Maybe the medicine is making him worse. I hear that can happen. He is supposed to be getting better.  It could be nothing. Sure. That is it. The medicine. It has made him worse.  Oh lord, if our son had found him. If he had been successful. How DARE HE? Our SON would have been the first one to find him. I would have let him take the keys and run ahead of me into the house to see Daddy when I saw the truck home. That prick! I wonder…How did he try? Why? How did I miss the signs? His mom couldn’t let me talk to him. Oh god, I hope he is ok. Please, lord. Let him be ok. I can’t…Oh my. I almost lost my husband. Oh lord PLEASE not my husband.  Thank god he called his mom. Why didn’t he call me? Let me check my phone. Ok he did try to call me. Why didn’t I have my phone on me?  Why wasn’t this a day where I left it in my pocket?  I hope he is going to be ok. Oh lord. Please give me strength. Please let him be ok. Please. Let him be. Just let him be. Let him be strong and alive. Let him be safe. Let him be in my arms. I am going to punch him. Our son…that prick! But he is alive. Thank you lord, he is still alive. He was not successful. Oh god. How did I miss this? How? 

Drop off the kid. Get my laptop because I know hospital TV sucks, he might be bored.  Plus my page and my internet friends are my escape. My safe spot… Pull the roommate aside. Fill him in. I gotta get to the hospital. Call his two best friends. They are brothers to him. WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN HE TOLD YOU HE TRIED THIS ALREADY LAST MONTH!?!?!?!?!?!?!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!??????? And I am just now hearing about this? FUCK BRO CODE. Fuck him saying he would see a shrink and then doing it. Yes, He WAS going to see a doctor. But still. How could you not tell me? This is fucking serious. YES you needed to tell me. I have to tell the doctors. This changes everything. He might not get to come home now.  OK. No time to fight about this. I will deal with you later.

REWIND: THREE YEARS 5 MONTHS – KING PIGZ STORY
Samm:  Listen, bro, I think you should get your son’s name down as part of the sleeve we are starting on your forearm instead of your back.
KP: Really? I was thinking I would put it on the shoulder as part of the back piece we are starting
Samm: I really think it needs to go on your arm. You should have the most important things in your life front and center. I really feel like this is a better idea.
KP: You are the expert, man.  Ok. Right there. Top side of my forearm. Let’s do this.  
(The tat ended up being Hurricane’s name down his forearm, and the birthday on his wrist like a bracelet)

FAST FORWARD-2 WEEKS AGO
King Pig stands in the kitchen. Holding a knife. He can’t take the pressure. He feels useless. Alone. Hopeless. He stands over the sink. Knife in hand. Tired of being in pain. Tired of feeling alone in a house and world full of people. Tired of feeling like no one cares. Tired of not understanding the fear that grips him on a daily basis, the thoughts that race through his head.  Tired of feeling like a burden because I am doing it all at home. He holds the knife in his right hand and reaches his left arm out over the sink.  Suddenly, while turning his arm over to get the correct angle on his wrist, he catches sight of the tattoo. The one he was going to have put on his back. There it was. Front and center. His son’s name stares up at him, in the same shade of deep red as the blood he was getting ready to spill. He stops. His son. He knows since losing his own father last year just how bad the pain is of losing a parent. His son. 5 years old. Would never recover from this. His wife. Me. He wonders how I will get by without him. He stumbles. He drops the knife into the sink. He hits the floor and fumbles to find his phone in his pocket. In tears, he tries to get someone on the phone. Anyone. First me. No answer. I am at work. Of course he can’t reach me. I am working. Teaching. My phone is in my bag while I am with my students. He panics. Considers grabbing the knife again. Runs his hand up and down his arm over his son’s name, there, in bright red ink. As red as the blood he was about to spill. He fumbles with his phone again. This time, he reaches his mother. He starts to cry. Through his tears she hears the words. Suicide. Pain. Help. She calls him from her cell on call waiting. She keeps her cool and keeps him on the phone. Talks to him the whole way down the highway to our house. She arrives. The normal 25 minute drive takes her 12 minutes. She begs him to get in the car. Tells him she will call the police if he doesn’t. He gets in the car. ER. She calls his doctor while she waits. No answer. They take him back. The frantic calls to me begin. But thank god he is alive.

A tattoo saved his life. The next several months will be filled with appointments. Pain. Healing. But a tattoo saved his life. And I will never. EVER. Be able to thank Samm enough. A simple conversation and decision. It saved his life. Thank you lord for bringing us to the shop for the first time 3 years ago. Thank you for your guidance and for inspiring Samm to make the choice he made. And thank you for keeping my husband on this earth. I would be lost without him. And I will forever be grateful for the tattoo, that saved his life.

Inked The first letter. Samm, no matter what happens in your life, please know this simple bit of ink, will have more impact than anyone could ever know. We love you.

Part II of this healing journey has been written and can be found here:
https://momtroversial.wordpress.com/2013/06/22/a-tattoo-and-suicide-more-than-just-you/


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