At A Glance
Author	Nuala
Contact	[email protected]
IAM	Nuala
When	N/A

My body has never been my friend.
It has never been my enemy, either.
For a long time, I just ignored it.

When I was fifteen, I was diagnosed with a growth disease which resulted in a delay of approximatively two years in my development. I had the body of a thirteen-year-old, which means I was much smaller than my friends, had practically no breast to speak of, and was not menstruated yet. Did that affect me ? Yes, I suppose it did. I knew it was only temporary, but this kind of experience is never pleasant and obviously your teenage years are the worst time for it to happen since it only adds up to the usual turmoil of acne, braces, greasy hair and what-have-you. However, my reaction was not to hate my body, but rather to detach myself from it. It did not look like me. It did not feel related to me. It was not me.

>From then on, even when my growth problems were eventually solved, I have had difficulties to give attention to my body: it was a stranger, and I don't talk to strangers. Of course, I was aware of its necessity; but apart from the basic functions � walking, eating, sleeping, having sex � I just didn't know what to do with it. More than that: I didn't even wonder if there was anything else I could do with it. I didn't find myself particularly beautiful, nor particularly ugly. I didn't avoid looking into mirrors, but I didn't look forward to it either. Sometimes, I would barely recognize myself on photographs. I didn't mind: I wasn't interested. So I wasn't satisfied with my body, but hey, you can't be satisfied with everything in your life, can you ? As I wasn't going to moan and complain about it for ages, I made do with it the best I could.

So how did that change ? Slowly. Very slowly.
Over the past five years or so, I grew interested in body modifications: beginning from small, temporary things like hair dying or body painting, and then piercing and tattoos. Obviously, I was firmly convinced that the more permanent stuff wasn't for me: body modifications, I assumed, were for people who had a body � a body they like, that is, and they feel represent themselves, which wasn't my case. But I was happy just looking at what other people did with their body, pretty much the way you can be happy listening to music even if yourself can't sing or play an instrument.

Around the same time, I found myself with a weird craving: I got the idea of having wings on my back. At first, this idea was totally unrelated to tattoos : I didn't envision them as a tattoo design, more as real wings, complete with feathers and everything. I was under the impression that they belonged on my shoulder blades, and that I wasn't complete without them.
Now that was really surprising to me. This was the first time in my life that I had such a strong desire associated with my body. It was the first time I even considered I had a body of my own. I can't say this was a revelation because at the time I didn't analyse it ; but it certainly was a trigger.

After a while, I started considering getting a tattoo, which seemed the next logical step since obviously it was the only way to get these wings on my back, short of resorting to genetic engineering to grow feathers. As all this was so new to me, I didn't want to rush things. A tattoo being a permanent and dramatic modification, getting it on a spur of the moment seemed like a very bad idea, even though I was sure that I wanted it badly. I also have to admit that I'm a perfectionist � I didn't want any tattoo : I wanted the exact, perfect tattoo I had imagined. I took to going to tattoo shops and conventions, sometimes having designs drawn for me, but I couldn't find exactly what I wanted. I'd rather wait than getting something I wasn't totally pleased with, so for three years, my skin remained virgin.

Somehow, thinking about getting a tattoo had opened my mind to other, less drastic possibilities. I found eyebrow piercings really attractive ; I began imagining what it would look like on myself. I thought about it for a few weeks, then one day decided to get it done. This was the second important step of the slow process.

Getting this piercing wasn't a problem. I had done some research on BME and in my area, and I had found a reputable, clean shop I could trust with my eyebrow. I wasn't afraid of the pain � an advantage of being psychically separated from your body is that you are not afraid to injure it � and I didn't mind getting strange looks from other people since I had an history of weird haircuts and strange clothing. I knew I wouldn't get any remark at work, for at the time I was working for a research center and everybody dressed the way they wanted. So I went for it.

It was a discovery.
I loved this ring. I liked the way it looked on me, the way I seemed different. I suddenly found out that I could like a part of my body, and this was even more relevant since that part was a result of my decision, my choice. This part of my body was mine ! It looked the way I wanted it to look, not the way nature imposed me. It reflected my personality, my inner self. Never before had my body done that to me.

It doesn't end there. As I was waiting at the piercing shop for the previous customer to be done with, I browsed the tattoo artist portfolio. The drawings appealed to me since they were the style of my desired wings. Less than a month afterwards, I took an appointment with the artist to discuss my project. From my indications, he designed a pair of wings corresponding exactly to my liking. It was love at first sight: I wanted them. They were the ones.

If the eyebrow ring had put something in motion, the tattoo changed my life altogether. I had dreamed of having this tattoo on my skin, and there it is, mine forever. I love it to bits.

But this tattoo is more than just beautiful ink in my skin. It has changed the way I look at myself. Thanks to it, communication is now possible between me and my body. This communication isn't always ideal, we're still on a love/hate relationship with each other. It's still very ambiguous � I don't think it can be any other way. Getting a tattoo meant two opposite things: on the first hand, it was a statement that I was in charge, I was the one to decide how it should look like; on the other hand, it was also a gift, a sign of good will. It was a mean to take control of my body, but I didn't want it to be too violent or antagonizing. It wasn't a mutilation, it was an adornment. It was a declaration of war and a truce at the same time.

Whenever I need to feel good about myself, I think about a new piercing. So far, it has worked wonders.
So no, all the issues I have with my body haven't been solved yet. I don't know if they ever will be. But what matters is that now I have found a way to open the dialogue, and I'm willing to.