I was running, trying to escape the nauseous feeling that kept pushing up inside my chest and threatened to explode out my mouth. I was disgusted with myself. I had just come from strange dorm room and was trying to find my way home.
At A Glance Author Anne Contact Anne@bme.anon IAM kleptesvirgo When Two years ago Artist Owen Studio Chameleon Location Harvard Square, Boston The sex I had just engaged in was not consensual, and the memory of it pounded in my brain. I kept watching the traffic that swept along the Boston streets, and wondered if I could step in front of a truck. Anything to end the pain I felt, anything.
I somehow made it home to my quiet dorm and collapsed in a chair. I showered and scrubbed myself raw. Then, after towel-drying my dreadlocks the best I could, I set out to Cambridge. I knew of a piercing and tattoo studio there called Chameleon; I had gotten my septum pierced there only a month prior. I needed release from the pain I felt, and mutilating myself with a razor was not an option. I felt a desperate urge to punish myself for my stupidity. A needle passing through my flesh seemed a decent source of pain for my undeserving body.
When I arrived at the studio, it was rather late. I believe I was the last customer of the night. But my mind was working in short, fragmented bursts, so it is with great difficulty that I recall what transpired.
When I approached the counter, I told the receptionist that I wanted an inner conch piercing. I don't remember what compelled me to ask for that piercing. I do know that the concept of an inner conch piercing frightened me – one only had to grasp the inner ear and feel how thick the skin and cartilage was there. But the pain would serve me well.
I bought the jewelry, a captive bead ring, at the neighboring jewelry shop. The receptionist had recommended a 14 gauge ring, but I held out for twelve. In hindsight, a 12 gauge isn't so big. But at that time in my life, it was the biggest needle by far that would pass through my flesh. That suited me fine.
Owen, the piercer, took me into one of the sterile piercing rooms alongside the main area of the shop. He asked which ear I wanted the piercing in, and I told him my left. My right ear has a pierced tragus, and I wanted some semblance of symmetry. He examined my left ear and I told him I wanted the ring to hang right above my anti-tragus. He cleaned my ear and marked me, then lined up the jewelry and a piece of cork. He told me to breathe deeply and prepared to push the needle into my body.
When the needle stabbed my ear, a rush of heady pain shot through my body. I could feel it, but it didn't affect me. Imagine reaching out and feeling an object graze your fingertips without having direct contact. The pain was like that. It barely touched me, but I could sense its overpowering presence. It cleansed me. The burn of the needle matched the burning pain in my own heart. I finally relaxed for the first time in hours.
I vaguely felt Owen fitting in the jewelry. He handed me a mirror, and I gazed at the new ring hugging the curve of my ear. It looked beautiful, and I felt a sense of peace.
I wobbled back to my dorm room and felt the blood rush to my ear. My head ached and throbbed with the heat. When I got back to my dorm room, I discovered that blood had crusted around the ring. I used a dampened q-tip to remove the dried blood, then stripped and fell into bed, exhausted.
The fresh piercing continued to bleed on and off for the next few days. Then it finally began to lymph. Sleeping on the ear caused me discomfort, and I leaned to lie on my pillow in a fashion that did not disturb the healing piercing. Aftercare was simple – I washed it daily in the shower with a bit of diluted Dr. Bronner's mild formula soap.
As the ring healed, I did as well. A month passed slowly, and the ring stopped lymphing. I continued to wash it in the shower, and it stopped feeling like a foreign object in my ear. It became a part of me and a reminder of the event that transpired. At times, I hated it. No one wants to have a constant reminder of something horrible beyond words attached to your body. But I am a glutton for punishment, and whenever I casually adjusted the captive bead ring, I felt a growing sense of power. I had the control to modify my body how I wished. I did not let this man modify it against my wishes – in piercing my inner conch, I effectively had the last word. For that, I am grateful.