The Room of Irreversibility

Fear of permanence, my first tattoo and an old piece resurfacing

Dear reader,

When my mother painted our kitchen I wept for days. The walls had been this sponge painted soft pink. It had such a texture to it, imperfect in the way that makes homes feel lived in and safe. It wasn’t so much that I loved the walls, though I did, but it was more so that I did not want to face saying goodbye to them. It was the understanding that they could never revert to this precise place they’d been all these years. I easily grow an attachment to that sort of thing, my heart wrapping tight knots around anything that has ever meant something to me.

The other day I got my first tattoo in honor of that same house with that kitchen. The one that I grew up in and said goodbye to in 2020, when my parents sold it and moved to the shore. I had been toying with getting this specific tattoo idea for years, but I was always hesitant, either too chicken or too broke to do it. A few weeks ago something came over me (I got my tax return) and I decided to go for it. Now, on my inner right arm, between my elbow and armpit, there is a one-inch, 10-cent postage stamp with cherries, symbolizing our old address, 10 Cherry Lane.

I’m historically terrible with needles and have a tendency to faint in their presence. I’m a perfectionist who is also very indecisive. This is to say the process of getting a tattoo is one I knew would be a challenge. But to my surprise, it was not a bad experience at all. Dare I say it was even fun. My tattoo artist Ariel (@arielisgood on ig) drew the design right in front of me and we tweaked it until I was satisfied. She even flipped the iPad to me and requested I draw the 10 cents for an extra sentimental touch. 

In the bathroom before the tattooing was set to begin, I looked at my arm in the mirror and stared at the blank space of skin where soon there would be ink. I was nervous but knew I’d come too far to back out. And I didn’t want to back out. The only thing to do now was to lie down, spread my arm out willingly, and wait to feel the first touch of the needle. 

The pain came and I felt instant relief. It was more than bearable, akin to a cat scratch or a bee sting, just like Google said it would be.

30, 45 minutes later, I’m not sure, time moves at an unfamiliar pace when you get a tattoo, I finally turned my head to see the finished product and instantly, I loved how it came out. 

I practically skipped out of the studio, waving my one-of-a-kind art piece at the world. But for some reason when I got home everything changed. Suddenly I was overwhelmed by a wave of panic. I broke down completely.

Was it too small? Too square? Did I even want a tattoo? No, no, yes. I knew the answers, but I couldn’t shake the feeling. It wasn’t that there was something wrong with the tattoo—it was perfect. It was the fact that if there was, it was too late. It was permanent. There was no going back. 

My heart raced and tears fell down my face the same way they had when my mother painted the kitchen. Or worse, when the house sold. The same way they had when I turned my tassel or when I hung up the phone knowing it would be the last time we’d speak. Moving, graduations, break-ups—it is the permanence that ails me. Deep down I’m glad for it, but in the fleeting finality of these moments, acceptance is hard to find. Time warps before your eyes and there is nothing you can do about it. I don’t like knowing I can’t go back, but the truth is, it was time to paint the kitchen, to say goodbye to the house. I had finished my degree, and we weren’t in love. 

Getting this tattoo and enduring my brief, albeit dramatic, panic attack over it taught me something about myself. Something I already knew but didn’t realize was still so prevalent. I am irrationally afraid of permanence. Standing in the room of irreversibility, looking out on the point of no return, I had to confront some part of myself that resisted change even when it was what I desired. I am still training myself to be willing to step forward, knowing that it’s okay not to look back. In hindsight, a tattoo was a good way to flex that muscle.

I will say, too, there is a sweetness to something becoming the past. Things end but what will never change is what happened. No one can take that away. Our kitchen was pink, we lived there, I learned, and I loved you. Now, there is art on my skin, and it looks cool and it reminds me of something special. Already it feels integrated into me, a part of me I won’t have to say goodbye to. And that’s just it, isn’t it? Some decisions are irreversible, and others, stay with us forever. Either way, life goes on.

Post-tattoo, pre-panic attack. May 3, 2024.

In honor of my new little tattoo, which I now totally love and want more of BTW, below is a piece I wrote for my old blog back in 2020 when 10 Cherry Lane sold. It remains one of my favorite things I’ve ever written because it reminds me of my childhood, much like the tattoo does now.

(written October 2020.)

Over the last several months, I’d been anticipating the mourning that’d ensue as a result of my parents’ selling the home that I was raised in. It’s been a week since I bid on a permanent farewell to 10 Cherry Lane and I thought I’d jot down my memories of the experience before they, too, slip away.

Though I’d moved out for college a few years ago, leaving for good made the experience much more surreal. There was something about the house that anchored my existence, like no matter where I went and how far my life stretched, I could always drive down that steep hill, take my spot in the crowded driveway, and open the door to find my old life untouched.

I was two years old when we moved into the home that Realtor.com now describes as “a beautiful colonial 1/2 mile to NYC transportation” and I was fortunate enough to never relocate throughout my childhood.

When I entered my house for what I knew would be my last time, it was as if all of the memories had spilled out everywhere. Though only fragments of the house remained, I was able to feel the soul of the space that had been so lovingly conceived over the last 20 years. Even the flush of a toilet felt familiar.

The house was so empty our voices echoed with every word. My whole family’s life was consolidated into Sterlite plastic bins. Some eternal keepsakes and some to be dragged to the curb labeled “free stuff.”

Things I hadn’t touched in a decade suddenly severed my heartstrings to part ways with. While organizing, I occasionally peeked out of my bedroom window to stalk our estate sale customers. 

This was the same window that had been my portal to the outside world for 18 years. I can remember looking out of it to check what the weather was each morning and to see my mom’s car safely pull into the driveway after her long day of work each night.

Not only was I fixating on the materials from my childhood home, but I was grieving the person I was when I lived here. My bedroom, where I’d cried over minor transgressions, wrote in my first journals and woke up on Christmas mornings. 

The memories of my childhood are made three-dimensional by the details of that house–the leaky sinks, the smell of Sunday meatballs, the baby Grand piano that no one ever played, the sound of the Friends theme song in any room at any given time. Spots like the vast backyard where I’d play until the sun went down, the space between my room and my sister’s where our cat would stop for a sip of water. 

I’ll miss seeing my dad’s flowers bloom and my mom’s teabags in the sink. I’ll miss the exhilaration of borrowing an article of my sister’s clothing and returning it safely. I’ll miss the celebrations and crushing defeats of high school sports games. I’ll miss the mailbox I once backed up into with my car and the basement stairs I’d always fear running up in the dark.

As I close my eyes on moving day, I could still imagine everything about the home as it once was. But now, standing in the hallways looking into the bare rooms, I thought the house looked naked. The place that had once held two decades worth of laughter, love, and comfort was now just a structure.

It’s often said that it’s not the place that matters, it’s the people you’re with. Moments of our lives can never be recreated, but they can certainly be remembered and cherished. I left behind 22 years of memories in a house that now belongs to someone else. Though those memories did take place in a home, the heart of it all was the family and the friends and the pets who passed through all those years.

It was the moment I said a ceremonial goodbye and pulled the door closed for the last time that I knew my childhood was officially over. As much as saying goodbye to the past was sad, I’m grateful to have had a past that hurts to let go of. And I like to think another family will experience the same joy of growing up there as mine did. That would just be the cherry on top.

Close up!

Sincerely,
Salena