Once upon a time, I was thirteen, and like all budding adolescents I was an idiot. I had the unique experience of growing up with a tattoo shop in my living room. My mom had started tattooing and piercing when I was five and I had seen (and helped out) in her "shop" for years. I had seen nipple piercings and Prince Alberts and countless other naughty displays of body modification and all I could think was "I can't wait to be old enough for this!" No really, I couldn't wait. And that's how I ended up spending one painful hour in my Grandma's bathroom.
On a dreary Saturday afternoon I was stuck, once again, at grandma's house. None of my cousins were there and I was devoid of entertainment other than the Golden Girls, which was none too appealing. So I began my usual rummaging through my grandmother's dressers and drawers looking for a stash of Christmas presents or forgotten toys. That's when I found the sewing kit. Looking at the needles I had an idea. Why not give myself that navel piercing I've been wanting? I could do it. I'd seen mom do it a hundred times. I knew what to do, how to clean it, take care of it. I even had a hoop earring that would work until I could snag a real ring from mom. So I set off to find the rest of the supplies.
Armed with the sewing kit, a bowl of ice, peroxide and a lighter I locked myself in the bathroom and began the arduous journey through two inches of navel skin.
After holding the needle over the flame and numbing my stomach with ice I felt I was ready. I was so excited. This was going to be awesome! My friends would be so jealous. So, hands shaking, I positioned the needle and began to press into my skin. Now, anyone who has ever pierced themselves would probably agree that the hardest part is applying the right amount of pressure. Half of your brain is screaming at you to put the needle down and the other half is willing you forward. I'd already been a cutter for a few years, so the pain wasn't holding me back, it was the feeling of that rubbery flesh between my fingers. It seemed to take forever for the needle to go through any skin. At one point I had to stop and take a break and I looked down and there was the needle, sticking into me about a millimeter. I'd been at it almost an hour and I had barely poked a hole. This is when I got serious. I grabbed the needle and just rammed it home. The feeling of the metal slipping through some skin barrier that I didn't even know existed almost made me pass out. It was the creepist thing. I freaked. I almost abandoned the whole idea right there, but I reconciled to myself that it was already half done, I might as well finish. So, tears in my eyes, I once again pressed the needle in and with a sickening little "pop" it went all the way through.
I looped the earring through the hole and looked in the mirror to check my handiwork. I was delighted. Nauseous, but delighted.
That week I went back to school and showed EVERYBODY. I was the coolest. I was so proud of myself that I wasn't even concerned when it started turning red. And then swelling. And then hurting. Finally, after some unpleasant discharge, I realized that some care might be in order. I started cleaning it with peroxide three times a day and it started to look better. But, alas, the fates had conspired against my little homemade mutilation and it was only to last until the next weekend.
My boyfriend and I were both just coming into our hormones and something about the badness of my new navel attire had revved our adolescent engines. We were making out in his room and he was apparently feeling bold. He decided to make a play for boob. He started to slide his hand up my shirt when suddenly the shirt snagged on something. And by something I mean the earring that was shallowly poised in my skin. But a boy with boob on his mind is not to be distracted by something as frivolous as a stray thread and he gave a swift, upward tug on my shirt. You can be sure that my scream distracted him from his boobly mission though. We both looked down and saw torn flesh and swimming pool of blood in my belly button.
I called my dad to come pick me up and I left my boyfriend's house embarassed and bleeding and rattling off some story about a stomach ache.
The incident left me with a nasty scar. When I turned eighteen I had my navel professionally done and that piercing hides most of the remnants of the old one.
If I could go back in time I would sit my ass on the couch and watch Golden Girls with my grandmother and leave my stomach the hell alone! But don't worry, I didn't learn from the experience. I have three new unsightly scars on my navel, but that's a whole other story.
submitted by: Anonymous
on: 07 Feb. 2008
in Navel Piercing