My obsession with tattoos

My obsession with tattoos is fairly recent.

I’ve always dreamed of having them since I was a child, looking at them with both suspicion and admiration towards those who had them and endured that pain.

Then came the illness, the pain, yes, that was real pain. And I couldn’t heal for months, I would say years. When we reached the final diagnosis and therefore the treatment to be undertaken, I thought that I could, indeed I had to, mark something on myself to remind me of what had happened.

I started getting two tattoos. The first one, like my best friend, a cosmopolitan glass, because we liked it, going out and having fun. Just like we do today when we meet. She’s in Florence, I’m in London… grown up, she’s a mom, I’m deaf… but we still understand each other. As we say, “we understood each other.”

Along with this, I got the Arabic phoenix, which seemed very appropriate, in short, rising from one’s ashes.

A few months later, I got a rose on my ankle, because it’s my spiritual symbol, a prayer that helped me when I was unwell.

Then I got the fourth one, which is the symbol of breath in Sanskrit. To make peace with my spirit, for the yoga practice I resumed, for breathing and moving forward.

The one in the photo is done with henna, at a friend’s wedding a week ago (it’s almost gone now), but I’m getting an idea for a new tattoo, I already know where and what.

There will be updates.

Obviously, there were various jokes about my tattoos from “sordamaldestra” (a play on words in Italian that combines “deaf” and “right-handed”). One funny moment was with my doctor. He said, “You know, I didn’t even feel that much pain, especially for the first two tattoos.” I replied, “I got them in October while undergoing chemotherapy.” He said, “No wonder you didn’t feel anything, you were full of cortisone.”

Well, it was just a saying.