As I laid on the table, waiting for the third person to try to start an IV, for a CT scan. The nurse studied my arms, checking for a vein that wouldn’t roll or hide. She studied my tattoos, as they all do, and her eyes became misty. I knew that she saw beneath my ink… She saw the scars, from my teenage years, that I chose to hide under a pretty flower, exchanging one stigma for another; a life of judgement and being considered alternative, verses a life of judgement for giving in to despair. I held my breath as every time I’ve ever been judged, for that arm, flashed before my eyes. She felt down my scar and said, “I like your tattoo.”
From my post-surgery recovery. Catching up a little bit, after fatigue kept me away.