in my casket. Even after the Earth would burn or freeze or crumble, my steel piercings would forever remain.
I looked in the mirror beyond my eyes, deep into the person I wanted to become. I was building armor protection and scars to tell others, “Stay away, I’m dangerous.” I had dyed my hair jet-black. My pale face under my tarlike hair transformed me into a corpse with a silver hoop through its nose. I couldn’t have been happier. For the first time I was satisfied with my outside appearance, because it started to match the pain of my insides. This was what high school had done to me—as others began their journey into a beautiful and hope-filled world, I grew into a “pretty hate machine.”
I started getting attention everywhere I went. People stared at me and looked either horrified and afraid or fascinated and attracted. It didn’t matter, because I believed I was making a point. I was angry; I was in hell; and now you had to see it. My pain was my fashion, the music was my inspiration, and my body became my masterpiece.
At school I gained confidence from my dark exterior’s “I hate you” attitude, and it was true—I did hate them. I despised them for calling me fag, and hated them for hating me. I resented them because I felt nothing but animosity toward them. For the first time I was communicating, and people heard me. My black demon stalked the halls of education. “Fag” turned into “freak,” and I embraced my new label.
My gymnastics coach was not happy about the change. Gymnastics had a certain look to it—preppy, clean-cut, and muscular—and I looked like I had been dancing all night in a mosh pit. Body piercing was a deduction in competition, but I wasn’t willing to change myself for a score. I felt we should be judged on our movement and skill, not on what we looked like. I wanted this rule changed and felt responsible as a role model for the next army of alternative gymnasts.
I believed in my heart that my coach knew I was suffering. I believed he wanted to take me in, but didn’t know how to confront my parents. Again, he pulled me into his office, trying to talk some sense into me. One-on-one without gymnastics to hide behind made it brutally uncomfortable. He told me that I had more talent in my little pinky than most of the other guys on the team, and I was letting it all go. I had no idea how to keep my spirit alive with everything that was happening at school. I was angry and wanted to spill my guts on his office floor, but couldn’t bear telling him the truth about what I was truly feeling and what the kids were calling me. I was a warrior for the art of gymnastics, and that meant I had to be strong. I left his office wishing I could still find a shred of innocence in me, but it was too late. I had made the deal and crossed over. And new flesh was already growing over the good boy I used to be.
Next I wanted a tattoo, but I was still underage. I heard it was possible to create your own tattoo with a needle, India ink, and desire. I thought if I created something on my own skin, I would cherish it for life. I had to choose a place on my body where my parents wouldn’t be able to appreciate my artwork. I decided my foot would be best, since I could cover it with my socks. My artistic symbol was a black widow, which represented my emotions—dark, angry, and lethal. It was also something I could draw without making too many mistakes.
I cleaned my foot with rubbing alcohol and drew the spider with a pen. I sterilized the needle by burning it with my lighter, dunked it into the India ink, and started to slowly carve the design into my foot. The idea was to remove the skin and let the ink absorb into the flesh. After seven days the wound would heal and the ink would become part of my body as newly designed skin. I slowly dragged the needle through my skin, tearing, ripping, and pulling the pieces of flesh out that blocked my design. As with all my new hobbies, it bled a lot
I looked in the mirror beyond my eyes, deep into the person I wanted to become. I was building armor protection and scars to tell others, “Stay away, I’m dangerous.” I had dyed my hair jet-black. My pale face under my tarlike hair transformed me into a corpse with a silver hoop through its nose. I couldn’t have been happier. For the first time I was satisfied with my outside appearance, because it started to match the pain of my insides. This was what high school had done to me—as others began their journey into a beautiful and hope-filled world, I grew into a “pretty hate machine.”
I started getting attention everywhere I went. People stared at me and looked either horrified and afraid or fascinated and attracted. It didn’t matter, because I believed I was making a point. I was angry; I was in hell; and now you had to see it. My pain was my fashion, the music was my inspiration, and my body became my masterpiece.
At school I gained confidence from my dark exterior’s “I hate you” attitude, and it was true—I did hate them. I despised them for calling me fag, and hated them for hating me. I resented them because I felt nothing but animosity toward them. For the first time I was communicating, and people heard me. My black demon stalked the halls of education. “Fag” turned into “freak,” and I embraced my new label.
My gymnastics coach was not happy about the change. Gymnastics had a certain look to it—preppy, clean-cut, and muscular—and I looked like I had been dancing all night in a mosh pit. Body piercing was a deduction in competition, but I wasn’t willing to change myself for a score. I felt we should be judged on our movement and skill, not on what we looked like. I wanted this rule changed and felt responsible as a role model for the next army of alternative gymnasts.
I believed in my heart that my coach knew I was suffering. I believed he wanted to take me in, but didn’t know how to confront my parents. Again, he pulled me into his office, trying to talk some sense into me. One-on-one without gymnastics to hide behind made it brutally uncomfortable. He told me that I had more talent in my little pinky than most of the other guys on the team, and I was letting it all go. I had no idea how to keep my spirit alive with everything that was happening at school. I was angry and wanted to spill my guts on his office floor, but couldn’t bear telling him the truth about what I was truly feeling and what the kids were calling me. I was a warrior for the art of gymnastics, and that meant I had to be strong. I left his office wishing I could still find a shred of innocence in me, but it was too late. I had made the deal and crossed over. And new flesh was already growing over the good boy I used to be.
Next I wanted a tattoo, but I was still underage. I heard it was possible to create your own tattoo with a needle, India ink, and desire. I thought if I created something on my own skin, I would cherish it for life. I had to choose a place on my body where my parents wouldn’t be able to appreciate my artwork. I decided my foot would be best, since I could cover it with my socks. My artistic symbol was a black widow, which represented my emotions—dark, angry, and lethal. It was also something I could draw without making too many mistakes.
I cleaned my foot with rubbing alcohol and drew the spider with a pen. I sterilized the needle by burning it with my lighter, dunked it into the India ink, and started to slowly carve the design into my foot. The idea was to remove the skin and let the ink absorb into the flesh. After seven days the wound would heal and the ink would become part of my body as newly designed skin. I slowly dragged the needle through my skin, tearing, ripping, and pulling the pieces of flesh out that blocked my design. As with all my new hobbies, it bled a lot
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