[scar]ed

As I was getting undressed to take a shower one day, I caught a glimpse of my tattoo in the mirror. Emblazoned on my left shoulder, the heart design- one side an angel’s wing, the other twisted thorns- looked strangely distorted. The wing was suddenly childish and amateur; the thorns were messy, jumbled and horrid. It just looked ugly.

I thought to myself: “Oh god, why did I get this thing?”

I’ve had people, in public and at parties, approach me and comment on my tattoo. I am always asked, “What does it mean?” I tell them that it is in memory of somebody who passed away.

In actuality, it is a little more than that.

What most people don’t notice is the date that is inscribed in the middle feather of the angel’s wing. 7-31-1997.

That’s the day that my life- and I- really did change forever.

I rarely talk about my childhood, but I especially do not bring up that I am the child of a suicide victim. It makes people uncomfortable. I’ve also gotten pretty annoyed with people deciding that they automatically know what kind of person I am based on that little factoid alone, and people’s pity also drives me insane.

Therefore, I never talk about it.

In fact, I don’t even think about it very much. It would be an understatement to say that my mother’s suicide changed me for good. She passed her demons onto me- her thorns- and having to deal with those adult-sized things at seven years old ended my childhood immediately.

And while she is, in theory, my guardian angel now, I still hold resentment toward her, basically, ruining my life. Ruining me.

Most little girls want to grow up to be just like their mommy. Growing up to be just like my mother means I will be dead. Do you see why I don’t think about this very often?

And yet, I have those years of pain, those demons, that resentment permanently etched into my skin. My mental and emotional scars have manifested into a physical one, directly behind my heart. Why?

Because, as angry as I may be almost 14 years later, there is no denying that her death is why I am here, in Sonoma, now. Despite the almost unbearable pain she put me through, that same pain made me a hell of a lot more independent and, for lack of a better word, tough. That pain made me- well, me.

I believe everybody has similar pain. Moments or events they will never think or speak of again. There’s that song, “Every Rose Has Its Thorn.” Perhaps the opposite is true: every thorn may also be the chance for a flower to bloom.

My tattoo is a daily reminder of what I try to forget. It scares others- and it terrifies me- but it why I am writing this now. It has led me here and it will lead me to wherever I end up in this life.

For that reason alone, it will never be ugly.

bitch&lover.

While in the STAR lab late on Sunday night/Monday morning, somebody who has been a pain in my ass lately IM’ed me on Facebook with a snarky comment. I said something aloud in frustration, and the other people in the lab with me asked me who I was talking to.

I asked them, “Who is the one person that is on my shit list right now?” It took them four or five guesses to figure out the person, but all the people they mentioned were, in fact, also on my shit list.

Then, a couple nights later, an incident occurred where someone was very rude and disrespectful towards me. I was bitching to my roommate about what had happened and I said that if the person in question ever disrespected me again, I would rip them a new one without hesitation.

After taking a second to breathe, it hit me: I think it’s safe to say that my inner bitch has reared its ugly head this semester.

I don’t know what exactly it was that made Becca the Bitch come out in full force, but I have had enough of people’s idiocy and, frankly, I don’t give a fuck anymore. I’ve always been quiet and allowed people to be disrespectful to me. I’m done with it. I’ve grown a spine and a pair, and I’m sticking up for myself.

And yet, I call myself a bitch for doing so.

The word ‘bitch’ almost always has a negative connotation. Bitches are rude, shrewd and ruthless. However, I have become more assertive and I, as well as others, say I’m a bitch.

Apparently, trying to give somebody a social cue that, yes, you are really annoying and I don’t want to have anything to do with you qualifies you as a bitch; or, “No, I will not let you feel me up or take my clothes off” makes me a prude bitch.

So, since when has it become wrong for a woman to be assertive?

If being assertive equals being a bitch, then I am a grade A, stone cold bitch. I might be burning a few more bridges and pissing a few more people off now.

However, what I have learned is that there is no feeling greater and more liberating to tell someone you cannot stand to fuck off.

[not so] fatal attraction

Opposites, supposedly, attract. You meet somebody who is everything that you are not and it’s like two electrical wires touching- sparks fly like crazy. There is a perfect, harmonious balance between the two of you- it is black and white, yin and yang, day and night. You can’t have one without the other, and one can’t live without the other.

I’m pretty sure, however, that when it comes to the whole “opposites attract” thing, you don’t want to strangle the person on a daily basis.

The “man” in my life- not by choice, mind you- is one of the most self-centered, cocky bastards I have ever met or known in my life. For him, it is all about “me, me, me,” and I swear he does and says things just to piss me off. I constantly have to try and downsize his ego, but to no avail. And, especially as of late, I’ve been resisting the urge to slap the stupid, overconfident grin off his face.

And yet, as much as I almost hate this guy, there is something about his douchebag demeanor that attracts me to him. Whenever he talks about how great he is, I want to make him shut up, and there’s a couple of ways that I could do that, if you catch my drift. And, due to a semi-drunk encounter, I can confirm that he is good at two things: being a dick and kissing.

There is no way that I could ever be in a serious relationship with the guy- neither of us could probably handle it and, besides, I’d probably wear the pants in the relationship anyway. This guy is completely wrong for me- or is he?

Some people believe that we are attracted to people who are complete opposites of us because they have the traits that we desire in ourselves. Assuming this is somewhat true, I, in theory, want to be more of an asshole. I want to be able to be more self-centered.

The worst part is…maybe this is somewhat true?

Lately, I’ve found myself more irritated with some people and their antics/stupidity/ridiculousness. I’ve done the best job I can of being polite and nice and respectful and, basically, what people know me as. However, I’ve been dying to finally tell these people how fucking stupid they really are. Maybe I need to take a page from this guy’s book, grow a pair and speak my mind.

I may never get- or want- a fulfilling and meaningful relationship from this asshole, but I know what I will get and have gotten: multiple headaches, somebody nice to look at, a beccanalysis and, maybe, another drunken make out session that I w(on’t)ill regret. Maybe.