The Clef and The Hummingbird

At the foot of the Penglais Road hill in the Welsh town of Aberystwyth, there is a small, almost shack-looking, one-storey beige building that is the West Coast tattoo parlour. I passed it almost daily, during my commute to the lectures and seminars and Union Bar nights-out of my undergraduate-student days, each time tempted to investigate more. A friend of mine had had a large red rose with green splayed-out thorns and leaves printed into her lower back and I thought it was lovely, graceful. At the age of 19/20-ish, though I never voiced the thought, I really wanted my own tattoo, something ‘little and pretty’ was my thinking. Then I heard a rumour story about another friend who’d fainted and fallen off a chair due to the pain whilst having one done – I never found out the truth basis of the tale, but nonetheless even the slightest idea that such a needle response could happen kind of put me off. I moved on to other desires.

Now, however, almost 7 years on from my little brother and only sibling taking his own life, I have two tattoos.

My first tattoo is my ‘reminder of him’. I chose to have it done to tie in with my brother’s birthday, three days after my own in August. I decided on a treble clef design that incorporates a semi-colon, tattooed on the inside of my left wrist – the sign of music to symbolize my brother’s love and talents, and the semi-colon to signify his struggle and passing, and my nod to Project Semicolon, which focuses on the prevention of suicide through raising awareness and fighting the stigma that exists in talking about suicide. The inking experience was more emotional than I had thought it would be, despite how swiftly and efficiently it was carried out. I asked an already-tattooed friend to accompany me – just because I decided to have it done, does not mean I forgot the ‘friend-fainting-and-falling’ story. She held my hand and told me to wiggle my toes to give myself a different bodily area to concentrate on whilst the needle pierced my wrist. I was surprised at how much that tip worked, but it didn’t stop me from thinking about my brother. I welled up. And then it was all over, and I fell more in love with the image on my skin than I had expected I would.

My second tattoo is my ‘reminder to self’. The timing chosen for having it done, lunchtime in the middle of an average week, tied this one into daily, continuing life. The experience was a bit more surreal than the first – I went on my own, listened to the artists debate the merits of tinned peaches and carrots immediately prior to the inking, and it hurt much, much more. For this image, I chose an outline of a hummingbird positioned on the front of my right ankle, a very visible location for myself every day (especially in the morning). The image was not a random choice – having lived in Mexico for almost two years I’ve seen a few of these tiny, most beautiful of birds; my husband and I even visited a local café called El Colibri (The Hummingbird) every week. But these coincidences aside, it is what the hummingbird means that led me to choose the image –  this animal is about overcoming challenges, being mini yet full of strength and courage to handle the troubles and pains it encounters. The feathered-friend also symbolises love and looking for the nectar in life always, despite the traumas that present – even its wings adopt the ‘eternity’, figure-of-eight shape.

It is so easy after losing a sibling to suicide to get stuck. It can feel like you’re in some kind of existence-time-warp because no matter how many new things you do, experiences you have, that one day that changed everything can repeat in your mind at any moment of its choosing, pulling you backwards and demanding your attention over and over again. There is a want to remember and a want to move forward that live in tandem, that are experienced like the rise and fall of sea waves as ‘the days/months/years since’ accumulate. Bad intersects with the good, and sometimes things can feel so inter-tangled with one another that it is hard to suss out where and who exactly you are, especially on an emotional level.

Karen Leader writes about tattoos as being ‘Stories on the Skin’, that they can represent ‘layers of meaning’ and be empowering for the person who has them – far from the derogatory connotations they often have, tattoos can be used to creatively symbolise key events and moments in your life, as a means of helping you tell your story. Dickson et. al. adds to this by referencing Atkinson’s 2003 analysis that tattoos can be a means of self/identity expression, especially where there have been “role transitions, changes in life that have important impacts on identity.” (108). I relate to that very much, and I also take a lot from Leader’s comment that:

“Tattoo narratives…tell a story from the past, but have a unique presentness to them. They do not record a frozen moment in history, but a continual process of becoming” (Leader, 2016: 190)

For me this is how my images work. Skin holds and shows its natural stories through things like ageing-caused wrinkles, spots or scars; my tattoos are the special editions I’ve added to my library. Their permanency on my skin entirely reflects my relationship with my brother, the very marking nature of ‘the day the world changed’ and the continued learning-to-live-with my loss. I want to remember my brother, his person and life; I want to remember, as strange as it sounds, that his death was self-inflicted, as a reminder to talk and raise awareness about suicide (as my tattoos can be really helpful as conversation starters), to do my bit in combating the stigma that it has; but I also want the loss to not take over my whole being and life, wishing to live with and despite it. My tattoos help me do all these things. And at a very basic level, sometimes it is simply useful to have externalities to prompt the self when there is a ‘rough day’ going on – my clef gives me something physical to run my finger over, to trace the line and and remember, something to grant permission to indulge and wallow a little; my hummingbird is something physical to help in giving myself comfort (as well as sometimes a good talking to) in terms of ‘this is just one bad day; remember all the rest and keep going’.

Getting my tattoos was not an impulsive act – they were carefully thought out and reasoned in relation to the events and emotions I have lived, and continue to live, through. I’m ever so glad I have them.

*This post will also appear in upcoming US book publication ‘Surviving Sibling Suicide’, being compiled by Lena Heilmann Ph.D.*