Speaking of tattoos

Speaking of tattoos, I think this week's revelries in honor of the end of the semester were a nice gateway to getting to know my classmates better, and them me. I feel hobbled by my shyness at times. I am definitely comfortable around them all by now, but I'm fairly soft-spoken around most. Not the loud mouth I am around real friends. I know that deep down, I'm an interesting, fun, funny person, but I feel like I'm really bad at showing that to new people. Most people are pretty surprised when they find out I have more than tattoos than the average social worker, or that I have a wilder past than my mild demeanor would suggest.

That's why alcohol is the great equalizer. There are just certain barriers that need to be broken down before you can proceed any further getting to know someone, and it helps immensely. I probably would not have had such a long, in-depth conversation with one of my male classmates (with whom I'd never before exchanged two consecutive sentences) about Chicago neighborhoods, race issues, and the theatre scene had we not shared several pitchers of beer. And there's one girl who I always thought was super cool, but I never before knew much what to say to her. I have this vague memory of us on Diversey, our conversation reaching a fever pitch over our love of Thai food. Not that I'm probably going to be quite that animated next time I see her, but now we have a comfortable foundation.

I may have been dancing a little obnoxiously while we played cards at Delilah's, but I feel pretty comfortable knowing the most of my wildness is in the past, and my drunken antics aren't that embarrassing. (Besides. Dancing obnoxiously is part of who I am--er, the part I only show Tim however.)

Tattoo talk

I never really thought my tattoos were particularly symbolic. I know they're "supposed to" be, and I might be dismissed by people truly into tattooing, but I really just like them visually. I want something pretty tattooed on my body for all eternity. Though color really works well on other people, I don't want any in mine. I don't want any of them to ever be mistaken from a distance for a sorority-girl-butterfly or anything.

But really, I think they all do have quite a bit of significance. My first is an ode to my background, a Kansas one. I lucked out quite a bit. Ad astra per aspera is beautiful in the Latin and the English: "To the stars through adversity." I love it. I could have been stuck with Alabama's "We dare to defend our rights," or Maryland's "Manly deeds, womanly words."

My second was a me tat. Gotten on a whim after seeing a letter on the ankle of another woman, a script initial. It's just plain beautiful and delicate, and in a bitch of a spot that sure to inspire awe among those who know the most painful parts of the body to put a needle to.

My third was the wedding image. I love sharing a tattoo design with Tim. It too is very striking, beautiful, and meaningful. Doubly so, since mom designed the art for her wedding with dad, and we used it for all our wedding graphics. (Ever since I saw their invitation as a very young girl, I vowed that, should I ever get married, I wanted to use the exact same thing. I was very lucky to find a partner for whom the image fit perfectly.)

And the fourth is one I've wanted for yeeeears. Since I was 18. It's a reminder of who I was back then, who I wanted to be, and who I've become. Staggeringly meaningful, I suppose. This week, a few classmates and I were discussing tattoos, and they asked me about my wrist; I'm sure I drunkenly babbled a portion of that explanation but in a less articulate way. I almost forget at times that the image is one Tim also has tattooed on his back, so lest anyone think I copied two of his tattoos, I have to tell the full origin of mine.

Each time but the last, I swear the pain is enough to keep me away for good. And so far I've gotten everything I've ever thought of tattooed on my body, so maybe this is it. But it's true, what everyone says: you get addicted to it, and I still have a spare ankle and a spare wrist . . .

Done

So I'm done. My final was Monday, my group project due today, and my last internship until next semester was today.

I feel a little shell-shocked. I don't know what to do with myself. The first order of business was recovering from a massive hangover on Tuesday, and today will be spent recovering from a night at the shelter, but after that, what? I don't want to completely waste my break and be bored. But after three months of non-stop stress, I really just want to lay on the couch and watch movies. Damn the lack of movies at my house. I don't even feel like getting out to pick up any.

Stress

Maybe stress is so embedded in my life now that I fail to notice it affecting me. But Tim does, which led to a big meltdown and discussion last night. From what I was saying, he mentioned that a lot of the feelings I have towards school right now are ones I've told him I struggled with in the past, in school. It's horrifying to realize that, at thirty, I'm still working on the same insecurity issues I had at thirteen, sixteen, eighteen . . . Humiliating, too, for I thought I had grown up and become stronger.

The one social place I feel safe and comfortable in right now is the theatre, doing Gorey. Tim thinks it's because a lot of people escape to the arts to get external validation for their insecurity, but I don't want to be reduced to a simple (and slightly insulting) explanation. I think it's because I know the role through and through. It's not new to me, and I feel comfortable and confident that I can successfully do it. (That everyone likes me and appreciates me there is almost secondary to feeling confident about it.)

But as I say that, I realize that the shelter is also a safe haven for me, too. I know what I'm doing, and I can tell that I'm good at it. (This will be the sixth year that I've worked there.)

Which makes me fully realize how off balance I have been for the past three months. Thrust into so many new situations, which, no matter how much I think I enjoy them, still make me feel inexperienced, insecure, and just generally bad at what I do, since I don't swoop in and become immediately successful.

Not just job-wise, but also making friends.

It feels like almost everyone in my class is outgoing and gregarious. (Perhaps that's the typical nature of social worker, and I'm just an oddity.) And they naturally gravitate towards each other. I feel that my quiet nature works against me, and I'm losing the opportunity to make good friends.

That's not true, of course. I know a few classmates who value me quite a bit. But the stupid insecurity in me still thinks that's not enough. I guess I think that I am a pretty cool person, who does have a lot of interesting things to say, if given the chance. And that strikes me as confidence. Right?