A Really Good Day(47)

I cannot say the same for the stick-and-poke tattoos she’s scrawled on her upper arm, along her wrist, on her ankle and thighs. Blue and blurry, they remind me of the marks my prisoner clients would carve into their bodies to pass the endless months and years of incarceration. I know that my daughter is not alone, that she is only one of a million artistic college students sticking and poking her body. But I really don’t like those tattoos.

I was taught that Jewish law forbids tattoos. By “taught,” I mean I heard it on my parents’ Lenny Bruce record. When she sees his tattoo, Lenny’s aunt, whom he calls the Jewish Seagull, caws, “Hah! Hah! Lenny! Vat you did! You ruined your arm! Vy’d you do that? You can’t be buried in a Jewish cemetery!” The Jewish prohibition against tattoos stems from Leviticus 19:28, which states, “You shall not make gashes in your flesh for the dead nor incise any marks on yourself: I am the Lord.”

“Any marks.” Seems pretty clear. But of course the Bible also prohibits holding grudges against other Jews (Leviticus 19:18 “Thou shalt not avenge, nor bear any grudge against the children of thy people”), and Lord knows I hold many a grudge, especially against the children of my people (I still haven’t forgiven Maxine Nudelman* for stealing my boyfriend at Camp Ramah in the summer of ’76). Also forbidden? The eating of shellfish and pork. I’m typing this while stuffing my face with two tacos, one fried shrimp and the other carnitas, so obviously this has nothing to do with law, Jewish or otherwise.

I’m troubled by the tattoos because I worry that they are not an expression of artistic sensibility but of a compulsion for self-harm. Or, if I’m going to be really honest, that they are an expression of maternal failure. Surely, children who feel beloved and well taken care of don’t mark their bodies with ugly things. I know this is nonsense. Whereas I see them as ugly and poorly drawn, she sees them as beautiful. They have nothing at all to do with me. They are hers and hers alone, an expression not of unhappiness or depression but of style. Her style.

This tattoo, however, was something else entirely. It was not only ugly to me, but it was on her lovely, perfect throat, where only the highest of turtlenecks could hide it. Even though I’d spoken to my daughter as recently as yesterday afternoon, even though she’d sounded fine, cheerful if a little stressed about her finals, I flipped out. A person who thinks she might one day have a job in the “straight” world, who anticipates meeting and wanting to impress people older than herself, who imagines a range of future selves doing a range of exciting and interesting things, would never get a giant black tattoo on her neck, would she?

And then my younger daughter pointed out what I had missed. (Because, yes, by then I had gotten out of bed, with Instagram open on my phone, and my freak-out had woken her up.) The tattoo depicted an emoticon. It stood for “meh,” signifying indifference.

Forget imagining a job in the straight world. A person who feels such existential apathy that she inscribes “meh” on her body does not anticipate any future at all. A person who wants one of the first things others know about her to be that she does not give a shit, is not a stable and well person. That person is depressed. That person is at risk. That person’s mother needs to change out of her pajamas and get on a plane and swoop her up and bring her home and wrap her in cotton batting and protect her from everything in the world, including herself.

I am, I know, particularly anxious when it comes to my eldest child. This anxiety is based, unsurprisingly, on guilt. I have forced upon this child a Ph.D.-level expertise in her mother’s mental illness. Her studies began almost as soon as she popped out of the incision in my belly, eyes wide and watching, perfect bow of a mouth ready for a kiss. A few days after we brought her home from the hospital, after the adrenaline had faded and the Vicodin worn off, I started to experience disturbing images, fantasies as vivid as dreams, though they overtook me when I was wide awake.

I would be nursing her with perfect contentment, and then, suddenly, I would see in my mind’s eye an image of me smothering her. I would be walking through the house with her in my arms, humming a made-up lullaby, and as I passed the knife block on the kitchen counter, I would imagine myself grabbing a blade and slitting her throat. I would be bathing her in her little tub, and I would imagine letting go and watching her sweet face slide beneath the water.

The more I tried to suppress these horrible intrusive fantasies, the more vivid and frequent they became. I was convinced that there was something terribly wrong with me. I wondered if I was suffering from postpartum depression. I wondered if I was evil. I wondered if I was a mother or a monster.

This was in 1994, when the Web was in its infancy. Had it even occurred to me to search the Internet, there would have been nothing there to find. I didn’t go to the library or consult a therapist, either. Instead, I kept mum about what I was seeing in my head, even as the images influenced how I dealt with my baby. I was fearful, worried I’d lose control and hurt her. I was anxious about being alone with her, clingy with my husband. Even after the images faded, I felt their effect on my mothering. I lacked confidence. I didn’t trust myself.

The intrusive images came back again, even more intensely, when my second child was born. By that time, however, I was confident enough in my capacity to love my baby to ignore them. When they returned after the birth of my third child, in 2001, Google was finally there to help.

Surely, one of the greatest benefits of the Internet is its capacity to create community among strangers. No matter how bizarre your symptoms, you can find fellow sufferers. Convinced your skin is extruding tiny fibers? Welcome to the Morgellons community, with Joni Mitchell to sing your anthem. Find yourself imitating everything that surprises you, including the barking of a dog or a passerby’s fart? You probably have Miryachit, a disease also known as Jumping Frenchman of Maine, and you can find others just like you online. None of us need ever again feel isolated in our pain.