A Tattoo Representing 13 Years of Recovery from Abuse

“When individuals reveal their true selves, trust them right away.” ~Maya Angelou

In June 2011, I received a friend request on Facebook from a guy I knew somewhat from my college days. We had never been in a relationship or particularly close, but I knew him by reputation. Charismatic. Narcissistic. The type of guy who was always in a relationship.

He had recently been hired to teach at my school, and I was just about to enter my fifth year as a counselor. He framed the request as a desire to connect as colleagues, so I accepted it.

Once the school year commenced that August, he made a point of frequently visiting my office, even though his classroom was nowhere nearby. After weeks of him asking me out, I finally agreed to join him for one drink. Not a date, I reassured myself.

That evening, I intended to disclose that I have herpes, thinking it might deter someone so image-conscious. Before I could get the words out, he anticipated me: “I know what you’re about to say. You have herpes.”

I was taken aback. I had disclosed my diagnosis to a few close friends in college years prior, and since we shared overlapping social circles, I figured the information had somehow reached him. He never specified how he was aware.

Surprisingly, I felt a sense of relief.

He was aware, and he still desired me.

In retrospect, the warning sign wasn’t merely that he knew. It was the manner in which he used that knowledge. He could have allowed me to share something deeply personal in my own time. Instead, he wrested the disclosure from my control.

At that moment, however, I did not perceive it that way. I saw it as acceptance.

It felt enchanting.

The Unraveling

Things progressed quickly. By October, he had accumulated so much of his life at my place that, without either of us explicitly deciding, he had effectively moved in.

I was upfront from the beginning about my desires, my expectations, and that if he ever wanted something different, I preferred to know rather than be deceived. For a while, it appeared he was listening.

By the fall of 2012, he had commenced his master’s program. That December, something transpired that made the unease I had been feeling impossible to ignore.

During intimacy, he suddenly gripped my neck and began choking me. We had never discussed it. I had never shown an interest in such things. When I demanded to know why he thought I would want that, he replied that he thought I’d enjoy it.

Deep down, I sensed that there was more to his response.

Then came the nights when he didn’t return home, despite living with me. No calls. No texts. The following day, he would justify his absence by saying he was studying with classmates.

I couldn’t prove infidelity, but I became convinced he was unfaithful.

When I fell ill with the flu that same month, the man who had previously cared for me through every sneeze suddenly vanished.

There was another incident I didn’t fully comprehend until later.

We were embroiled in an argument one night, likely regarding his fidelity. I was standing at the kitchen sink doing dishes while he paced behind me, his voice escalating.

“I’m going to take a walk before I do something I regret.”

My body registered those words before my mind did. There was something unsettling about them.

But then he did precisely what he said he would do. He left. He went for a walk. When he returned, he had calmed down. Nothing transpired.

I convinced myself that perhaps that was a healthy approach. He had recognized his anger and removed himself from the situation rather than escalating it.

Years later, that is one of the moments I reflect on the most.

At the time, I couldn’t recognize the warning embedded in those words. I was in love with him, and the sensation of being accepted by someone who already knew the thing I once feared would render me unlovable was overwhelmingly blinding.

Thus, I dismissed what my body had already sensed.

I finally told him to leave in January 2013.

What I Wasn’t Ready to See

I confronted him before asking him to leave. He never confessed to cheating, and I had no proof. But by then, I was inclined to trust what his behavior was communicating.

There was an irony I couldn’t ignore. I entered the relationship frightened that my STI would make me undesirable. I had been open and honest about my sexual health from the outset. Now, I was with someone who knew my status and whose actions left me questioning whether he was jeopardizing my sexual health.

It took me longer than I would have liked to sever ties.

He was convincing. Charismatic. Even his fraternity brother advised me: “Avoid dating him. He’s not trustworthy.”

When he still refused to leave, I contacted two of his friends, including one of my own, and requested their assistance. They eventually persuaded him to depart. I placed his belongings outside my door for him to retrieve.

I thought that was the conclusion.

It wasn’t.

He continued to show up. If I didn’t reply to a text, he’d be at my door.

I misinterpreted his persistence as love.

I hadn’t yet grasped that someone can desperately crave access to you without truly knowing how to love you.

The Second Chance I Shouldn’t Have Given

For the subsequent months, he kept tugging at me with texts, calls, and uninvited visits. In April 2013, I finally took the bait.

I offered him one final chance, an olive branch I now recognize I never owed him. We attended a jazz festival together, featuring a lineup I genuinely adored: India.Arie, Anthony Hamilton, artists whose music I would replay for years without a trace of resentment.

For a few hours, amidst that crowd, everything felt easy once more.

On the drive home, I witnessed him texting another woman, arranging to meet after dropping me off.

I told him it was over.

When we arrived at my place, I requested my key fob back. He refused to give it to me.

I was exasperated, not violent, not dangerous, just done. I tapped his car’s bumper with my shoe to get his attention and demanded the fob once again.

He struck me.

Closed fist, to the face.

Hard enough that the next thing I knew, I was on the ground.

What Happened After

I got up, sprinted to my apartment, and he followed. He forced his way inside and immediately wanted to call his father, as if he needed a witness to rationalize his actions before I could comprehend what had just happened to my own body.

His dad’s response, upon hearing what his son had done: “You are a monster.”

And amidst the shock, I recalled another phrase.

I’m going to take a walk before I do something I regret.

This time, I recognized the warning.

I made him leave. I dialed 911. A friend took me to the emergency room, where I reported the assault.

Months of court postponements ensued: continuances, a lawyer dragging his feet, him breaching the restraining order multiple times. Eventually, he was found guilty of misdemeanor domestic violence.

What lingered with me the longest wasn’t the case itself.

It was the shame.

I’m a counselor. How did I overlook the signs?

I was also ashamed because I had already done the work. From 2010 to 2011, I had invested so much in my personal development. I had spent money. Attended therapy. Asked difficult questions. Learned to love myself.

How could I have worked so hard to discover myself, only to lose myself again?

The Truth I Needed to Hear

Here’s what I understand now that I didn’t grasp then: I didn’t overlook all of the warning signs.

At times, I recognized them. At times, I felt them in my body before understanding them with my mind.

And then I justified them.

Rose-colored glasses are real. It genuinely is challenging to see clearly when you’re in love, regardless of how much training or insight you possess in other areas of your life.

I had a strength, an ability to see the good in individuals, to believe people could change, which I used daily in my career to assist teenagers. That same strength, turned inward without boundaries, allowed me to create rationalizations for behavior my instincts were already questioning.

It enabled me to revisit, months later, a narrative that had already revealed its conclusion.

None of this makes it my fault.

Kicking a bumper is not an action that warrants a punch to the face. Period.

If you take nothing else from this, absorb that sentence and read it again. An argument, a raised voice, a shattered expectation, or something you did that your partner didn’t appreciate does not render you accountable for their choice to resort to violence. Conflict is not an invitation to violence.

However, I also had to recognize that losing myself again did not negate the work I had accomplished previously.

It didn’t imply I had failed at self-love. It indicated I was human. It meant I had entered a relationship believing I could love someone without compromising myself, and I didn’t realize I was disappearing until I was already lost.

That realization stung.

I was disappointed in myself. I felt embarrassed about how much I had committed to becoming stronger, only to find myself back in a place of confusion and shame.

But I also recognized something crucial: if I had rebuilt myself once, I could rebuild myself again.

Bulletproof

I refused to let that year define me. I ran, quite literally.

Trail running and hiking evolved into essential components of my weekly routine, a way to regulate my nervous system so I could remain steady for the students who relied on me.

I also returned to counseling myself, almost immediately. Not someday, not once I’d “figured it out on my own,” but right away.

I needed a professional to assist me in understanding what had transpired, why I had overlooked what I did, and how to regain trust in my own judgment.

It was challenging.

It was tough.

There were days when healing felt less like ascending and more like dragging myself across the floor. I had to mourn the relationship, the version of myself I had lost, and the belief that undertaking the work once guaranteed I would never struggle again.

Gradually, with movement and support, the wound transformed into something I could carry without it bearing me down.

Then something else transpired.

I evolved.

I became an even stronger woman, a brighter light than I had been before. Not because the abuse fortified me. It didn’t. What transpired was not a gift.

The gift lay in what I discovered about myself afterward: what I desired from life, what I wanted from others, what I sought from experiences, and what boundaries I would uphold in relationships.

Sometimes the most challenging seasons grant you insights that you could not have acquired any other way. Not because suffering is essential for wisdom, but because living longer, loving deeper, and surviving what you once believed would break you can teach you lessons you previously could not comprehend.

This past Saturday, thirteen years after that evening at the jazz festival, I finally got the tattoo I had been contemplating for all those years.

Just beneath my left clavicle, closest to my heart, are the words Bulletproof Soul.

The words originate from Sade’s track “Bullet Proof Soul,” from her 1992 album Love Deluxe. I first heard the song at twelve, too young to grasp its meaning. At thirty-three, after everything I endured, I understood it fully.

It became the soundtrack to my journey toward self-restoration. I played it on a loop while I ran, mile after mile, stabilizing my nervous system and learning how to trust myself anew.

So when I finally inscribed Bulletproof Soul on my skin, it wasn’t to commemorate what happened to me. It was to signify what I built afterward: the runs, the trails, the counseling sessions, the years of learning and unlearning, losing myself and then finding myself again.

The tattoo didn’t hurt going in. It doesn’t trouble me now. Most days, I forget it’s there, which seems entirely appropriate.

It’s no longer a wound. It’s simply a part of me now, the way strength integrates into your being through everything you construct afterward.

If you are currently in the midst of your own challenging lesson, still bleeding, still questioning how you overlooked the signs: you didn’t fail. You were human, in love, doing your best with what you knew.

And if you once reached a point where you felt enlightened, whole, or deeply connected to yourself, only to find yourself back in despair, that does not signify you are back at the start.

You can rise again.

It may be painful. It may be difficult. But it can also turn into a blessing, not because what occurred was positive, but because you might uncover more about yourself and gain a clearer viewpoint on what you want from your life, your relationships, your experiences, and the individuals you choose to allow near you.

When someone reveals their genuine self to you, trust them right away.

And if you didn’t, if it took you a second chance to learn it, as it did for me, that does not disqualify you from healing.

You can heal. You can reconstruct. You can transform into an even brighter version of yourself.

Not because what happened to you was a gift.

Because what you unearthed within yourself was.

You just have to endure it first.

**A Tattoo Symbolizing 13 Years of Healing from Abuse**

Tattoos have long held significant meaning as symbols of personal stories, experiences, and transformations. For many, they signify milestones, memories, or pivotal life changes. One particularly moving theme is the tattoo that denotes healing from abuse, particularly one that marks a journey of 13 years—a testament to resilience, strength, and recovery.

### The Significance of 13 Years

Thirteen years is a considerable duration, often linked with significant life changes. In the context of recovering from abuse, this period can embody the lengthy and challenging path of recovery, self-exploration, and empowerment. It is a timeframe that encapsulates the hardships faced, the strides taken, and the triumphs celebrated. A tattoo commemorating this timeframe serves as a reminder of the survivor’s strength and commitment to personal growth.

### Choosing the Design

The design of a tattoo symbolizing healing can differ greatly, mirroring the individual’s unique journey. Common motifs include:

– **Phoenix**: A phoenix emerging from the ashes symbolizes rebirth and renewal, making it a favored choice for those who have triumphed over adversity.
– **Lotus Flower**: The lotus, which thrives beautifully from muddy waters, symbolizes purity, resilience, and spiritual awakening.
– **Infinity Symbol**: Frequently combined with other elements, the infinity symbol signifies the endless journey of healing and the ongoing nature of personal growth.
– **Butterflies**: Symbolizing transformation and liberation, butterflies are a common motif for those who have overcome challenging situations.

### Personalization and Meaning

The tattoo’s significance can be further personalized by incorporating specific elements that resonate with the individual’s experience. This might include dates, initials, or symbols that hold particular significance. For example, integrating the number 13 represents the years spent healing, making the tattoo not merely a piece of art, but a profoundly personal narrative.

### The Process of Getting the Tattoo

Deciding to get a tattoo is a significant choice, especially one that represents such a profound journey. Survivors often approach this process with careful thought, contemplating their experiences and the message they wish to communicate. It can be a cathartic experience, allowing individuals to reclaim their bodies and narratives in an empowering way.

### The Role of Tattoos in Healing

For many survivors of abuse, tattoos serve as a therapeutic form. The process of getting tattooed can act as a healing ritual, granting a sense of control and agency over one’s body. It can also cultivate a sense of community, as individuals share their stories and connect with others who have had similar experiences. Tattoos can serve as conversation starters, enabling survivors to educate others about their journeys and raise awareness about abuse.

### Conclusion

A tattoo symbolizing 13 years of healing from abuse is much more than an artistic expression; it is a powerful emblem of resilience, strength, and personal transformation. It encapsulates a journey filled with challenges and victories, serving as a lasting reminder of the individual’s capacity to heal and evolve. As tattoos continue to find acceptance in society, they remain a profound way for survivors to honor their past while embracing their future.