I had the brilliant idea while visiting friends in Nacogdoches during the Christmas 2004 holiday season. It was the perfect storm – Pat, a tattoo artist and friend, was available, alcohol was freely flowing, as it always seems to do in Nacogdoches, and ex #2’s birthday was looming. It was a spur of the moment decision, not a lot of thought behind it, just a blind pursuit to prove my love, permanently. In hindsight, I suppose my thought was I would be with this man for the rest of my life so what would be the harm in PERMANENTLY inking his name on my right hip. Never say never or forever and ever.

What man in his right mind would not love to be honored in this fashion? This was my declaration of undying love, but thinking back on the actually “unveiling” there was a lack of enthusiasm. Where I thought there would be applause and cheers, this small piece of ink art was coolly received. And since there was no pre-planning involved, I had a lot of ink transfer to my white panties – warning: if you are planning a tattoo stupid, wear loose clothing and be prepared to go naked for at least twelve hours after if the art is in an area where clothing will rub and irritate.

As I have continued to emotionally process the divorce – the move to The Flat, photographs for the last fifteen years, the memory boxes, and on and on and on – the last item to deal with was the tattoo. The tattoo was draining my energy. It had an “ownership” attached to it. Duh. It was time, well past time, to proactively address the ink and potential possibilities for modifying.

I started talking to tatted friends and acquaintances and Axis Tattoo in downtown Corpus Christi received the most thumbs up and last Wednesday evening, my neighbor, Richard, acting as my body guard, took me downtown to discuss the possibilities for tattoo stupid. I met with Joseph, a tall drink of water tattoo artist that seemed cool, confident, and had a pretty laid back attitude about the whole affair. After staring at my ass for twenty minutes, he made several suggestions and we made arrangements to meet again at 5:00 o’clock Saturday, July 4th. This would be my personal Independence Day.

OUCH!

It took Joseph less than thirty minutes to modify the original tattoo. And it hurt like hell. It truly felt like he was cutting the damn thing off of my skin, and it also felt like it was going to be twice the size of the original. Funny how our imagination runs away when we are in the dark. I could feel him drawing on my skin and when he finally offered me the mirror to approve the changes, I felt let down. Not because it was less than I expected, but because it felt like more when I could not see it. Seeing the changes in the mirror made me realize how simple this process would be. I nodded my head and said, “go for it.” Then I felt the first stab of pain, started panting like I was in labor, and wondered where I could get some lidocaine. I told Joseph I did not remember it hurting so badly when I initially got the tattoo – oh, yeah, I was stinking drunk, which obviously dulled the pain, and he tells me this area of the body is very delicate. No shit!

Last night while attending a 4th of July bar-be-que I went commando. It took me a while to find something to wear that did not irritate the area and this morning it is still a little tender and I have my shorts rolled down so nothing touches it. It was worth the pain, though. It is my tattoo now – there will always be the memory of it origin and the reason behind it, but now it belongs to me. And I thank Joseph for his understanding and talent. He took a tattoo stupid and gave me a piece of body art I do not have to explain should I get caught in the future with my pants down. Independence Day 2009!

I began randomly and it turned out to be a middle-of-the-relationship Memory box. I had forgotten how many cards and notes husband number three had written through the years. Reading these loving missives I continued to ponder why our marriage ended. I mean, I know why it ended, but how did we get from those love notes to here? I, by choice, have not spoken with him since I hung up on him when he called at work, pre-lay off, to inquire about some recipes he wanted. What he really wanted was the 2008 tax information on the house we were forced to Short Sale because he wanted the divorce. Another live and learn story, but it is the boxes that have clogged my energy this past week, and considering those boxes held fifteen years of my life, no wonder I was hesitant.

I found many invitations to weddings, mostly my grown sons’ friends, too many funeral announcements, my friends, match books, swizzle sticks, wine corks, paper umbrellas from drinks at the Shady Grove in Austin. We used to say, “that is where we fell in love.” I found, what to me is, a precious photograph of my dearly departed Monroe, on the front porch of the Bungalow in Brenham.  Monroe came to Corpus Christi with us, but died in May of 2006. I still miss her. She was a really sweet, lovable cat that had a few hard knocks in her life, too. Like when we adopted Remy and she exiled herself to the attic at the farm for one entire year.

I found things that puzzled me – no idea why they were saved – those items went straight to recycling. I found a garter tossed at some wedding I attended. It meant so much to me I put it in the memory box, but I have NO idea who the bride was. I wore it the rest of the afternoon, high on my thigh, while I worked on the boxes.

I am still feeling the urge to go dig all the cards out of the recycling bin that I tossed. I read each of them. Weighed their content and pondered if they would be of any future use. I can be brutal when it comes to pitching stuff and I do not want to regret the purge in a week, month or year. Loving tributes. Many words of thanks for being so real, so honest, so loving, so open, so scared, so passionate, so me. Well, the me that was sitting on the bed touching each of these items, telling myself it will be less for my son to go through when I die, was experiencing feelings of anger, more than sadness. Angry that I thought this was a marriage for a lifetime. Truly. We would weather any storm. Ha. Jokes on you, Carol. He had his fingers crossed from the moment the wedding date was set. He loved me with conditions, and all of those cards and love notes were actions of a man that loved what he had, then set out to change it all.

I had to set aside all of the love notes. I could not, honestly, deal with those in the same day as the boxes. I did add some cards, with hand written notes, to the pile of notes and tied them up in a red ribbon. All of these are for another day – some future consideration, but I made terrific headway and I do feel lighter. He has no power over me any more. I never again have to do what he says he thinks I should be doing. All of his power is gone.  As long as I remember this when I have the time to address the final tidy little package. Maybe I’ll share, maybe they will find their way to the landfill, but I tackled the biggest part of the project and am no worse for wear.

Now to address the tattoo on my right hip which has a banner and his name . . . . . live and learn.

Another one of my weaknesses, which formed during my courtship with husband number three, was Memory boxes. It really started causally enough with these beautiful boxes that came my way and were the perfect size to hold mementos of special occasions. Well . . . . . these boxes are staring at me right now, a little road weary, not so new looking anymore, and I keep finding other things to occupy my afternoon. I am not sure what I am afraid I will find in these beautiful floral boxes, four in all, but I am resisting to the point that I am considering cleaning the bathroom.
They are just memories. Fifteen years of memories, to be exact. I do not need boxes full of ticket stubs, Playbills, wedding invitations, a menu from Thanksgiving dinner twelve years ago, or postcards of past travels to remember my last marriage. So I sit here and contemplate the worst that can come from me opening the first box. I may get a little melancholy. I may cry, hell, I may laugh. All of this is okay. If I can survive the death of husband number one and give birth to his child one month later without benefit of his coaching, I should be able to survive these four little boxes. Shouldn’t I?

Perhaps I am afraid of his power over me again, perhaps it will be a reminder that maybe I did not try hard enough to save the marriage, but perhaps it will be cathartic. More baggage out makes room for new mementos, new Playbills to collect, and four empty boxes to fill, or, like many of my recent purges, the boxes will find their way to the recycling bin.  I know when it is all said and done, I will feel lighter. A little less burdened by my past mistakes. If I make lunch now, I can put this off for at least another hour, and it’s the weekend. Maybe I will have a short glass of wine with my lunch.

To be continued . . . . . . . . .

When living arrangements with my soon to be ex-husband became unbearable last Spring, I set out to find my sanctuary–finding a clean, affordable rental, in a good neighborhood, with a landlord willing to trust me that Remy’s long taloned nails would not ruin his hardwood floors, in Corpus Christi–is a feat requiring patience, a willingness to step outside your comfort zone, interrupting neighbors during their yard work, even negotiating a rental price, is how I came about finding The Flat. It also involved several girlfriends, a bottle of gin and some fresh-off-the-tree grapefruit.

The Flat before the move. Photo by Carol Kiphart 2008

In the beginning, it was all about creating a space that was welcoming to my family and friends, but also a place where I could rediscover my self. Something that always gets lost when I am in a long term relationship. It becomes all about them and I lose my confidence swagger. My self esteem just flies right out the window.

Within a month of moving in, I found myself eating cereal for dinner or a PB&J and a piece of fruit. I could do anything I wanted, eat anything I wanted, watch any program on television, go to bed when I wanted to go to bed, shop for the type of food that I wanted to eat, lay on the bed in the middle of the afternoon and day dream. Snore, fart, and let the dishes sit overnight (gasp!), walk around naked without fear it would be taken as a bid for sex. It has all been a learning process. Getting his voice out of my head and finding my voice. Sure, I made a few early missteps, but what woman, on her own for the first time in her life, can avoid making a few mistakes?

The Flat after the move. Photo by Carol Kiphart 2009

Just as I thought I was finally settling into single life, and not feeling like I needed a man in my life, I was laid off from my job, which set off an entire new blast of anger towards my ex for moving me to Corpus Christi in the first place, thus the term “. . . from the Edge of the Universe“. I did not deal with the lay off well. Although the grapevine would have you believe I took the news very well, in truth, that night, which happened to be of all days Friday the 13th, and a week after my fifty-third birthday, I contemplated suicide. I had the pills in one hand, and, thank Goddess, my cell phone in the other. I called Chana, a friend in San Antonio, and she stayed on the phone with me most of the night. The next morning I was covered in used Kleenex, my face was puffy and swollen from crying, but I was alive and the sun was shining in my bedroom window and Remy needed to be walked and fed. Life had to go on and I had a choice to get on the train or jump under it. As hard as these last four months have been, I am so glad I chose to get on the life train. One of the things I know for sure – life always seems a bit brighter come morning.

Now, I must learn to survive this challenge, which opens up an entire new can of worms, and puts my purchase of curtain rods and drapes on hold for now. I am still in the hopeful stage and have trimmed down my cost of living significantly. I am very grateful for The Flat, a place to take a shower whenever I want, to hold my few treasures and possessions, because I realize there are women just like me across America who do not have this basic desire–a sanctuary from a world in crisis.

In what should be a very exciting time in my life, an opportunity to explore all aspects of who I am and what I want my humanitarian contribution to be, I must spend each day contemplating and pursuing a job which will provide me with the financial stability I need to live a modest lifestyle. It is a scary time, financially, to live alone. There is no backup plan. Not yet, anyway. Forever an optimist, at the end of the day, I am fortunate that Remy DuBois, the debatable darling dawg daughter, is my constant companion. She reminds me of the simple turns of daily life – sleeping, dreaming, eating, walking, pooping, peeing, and when on those rare occasions off leash, running with wild abandon.