The Writing Of Rebecca Bones

I started marking my skin like I was afraid I might disappear without leaving anything behind.
There had only been eight before — small, quiet things that didn’t ask much of me. Now there are more than thirty, scattered across me in a way that feels less like decoration and more like evidence. Proof that I was here. Proof that I stayed. Even when I felt like I was slipping out of my own life.
That year didn’t break me all at once. It unraveled slowly, almost gently, like something being undone with care. One thread at a time. One version of me loosening its grip until I no longer recognized the shape of who I was becoming. My mind had always been restless, but this was different.
ADHD is not just distraction. It is intensity without direction. It is feeling everything at once and not knowing where to put it. It is a mind that moves faster than the body can follow, constantly reaching, constantly searching, constantly trying to land somewhere that feels stable.
For a long time, I lived inside that current without understanding it.
And when I finally tried to slow it down —when I started medication — it didn’t feel like relief at first. It felt like distance. Like someone had dimmed the lights inside my own mind. I was still there, but quieter. Further away. Less certain of where I ended and everything else began.
ADHD was the storm.
Impulsivity was what it left behind.
Not recklessness, not carelessness—just movement. Urgency. The need to act before the feeling disappeared or overwhelmed me entirely. The need to do something with what I was carrying, even if I didn’t fully understand it yet.
Impulsivity was not the problem. It was a response. A reflex. A way of trying to stay ahead of the chaos.
And then there were the tattoos. They were not the ADHD. They were not the impulsivity. They were what I chose to do with both.
Where ADHD scattered me, tattoos brought me back into one place.
Where impulsivity pushed me to act, tattoos gave that action direction.
Ink turned urgency into intention.
Every time I sat in that chair, it wasn’t about losing control — it was about reclaiming it. Taking something internal, overwhelming, and invisible, and giving it a shape I could hold onto.
The needle was precise. Deliberate. Grounded. It asked me to be present in a way nothing else could. And for the first time in a long time, I was. Fully.
The pain wasn’t the point, but it was honest. It didn’t drift. It didn’t disappear. It didn’t lie to me about whether I was real or not.
It told me, without question:
You are here.
You can feel this.
You still exist inside your own body.
Each tattoo became a decision. Not a loss of control — a moment of it. A place where everything that felt scattered came together long enough for me to say, this matters, and mean it.
I gave my thoughts somewhere to land on a different in myself.  I gave my emotions somewhere to live. I gave myself something I could return to when everything else felt unstable. And slowly, without realizing it, I began building something out of it.  Not just a collection of tattoos — a language.
A way of translating what I couldn’t say out loud into something permanent, something visible, something that wouldn’t disappear the way my sense of self kept threatening to.
This one held grief.
This one held anger.
This one held the quiet exhaustion of trying to stay present in a life that felt just out of reach.
None of them were accidents.
Even the ones that came quickly, the ones that felt urgent—they still came from somewhere real. Somewhere honest. Somewhere inside me that was trying to process, to survive, to understand.
I don’t regret any of them.
Because they were never just reactions.
They were responses with meaning.
But I understand now—they were not the healing. They were part of the bridge.
Because healing came in other ways, too. In quieter ways. Less visible ones.
In learning what my mind was actually doing instead of fighting it blindly.
In adjusting medication until it felt like clarity instead of distance.
In stepping away from people that made me feel smaller instead of whole.
In learning how to sit with myself without needing to escape the moment I felt overwhelmed.
ADHD didn’t disappear. Impulsivity didn’t vanish. But they changed shape. What once felt like chaos became something I could work with. Something I could understand. Something that didn’t have to control me, because I finally knew how to meet it where it was instead of running from it.
And the tattoos — they stayed.
Not as proof of instability, but as proof of adaptation.
Proof that when I didn’t have the right tools yet, I still found a way to cope without losing myself completely.
Proof that even in the middle of confusion and disconnection, I was still making choices that tethered me to something real.
There is a version of me in every line of ink.
Not broken.
Not reckless.
Not lost beyond repair.
Just learning.
Just reaching.
Just doing everything I could to stay.
And I did stay.
Not perfectly.
Not cleanly.
But intentionally — even when I didn’t have the language for that intention yet.
Now, when I look at myself, I don’t see a collection of impulsive decisions.
I see a map.
Of a mind that never stopped moving,
a body that kept calling it back, and a person who found a way to bridge the space between the two.
There is something haunting about that—
the idea that you can almost lose yourself and still remain.
But there is something powerful in it, too.
Because I didn’t just survive that version of myself — I learned how to understand her.
And now, instead of trying to quiet everything inside me, I know how to listen.
And that has changed everything.
And somewhere along the way, in the middle of all that noise and learning and becoming, I found people who understood me in ways I didn’t yet understand myself. People who didn’t mistake my intensity for instability. People who stayed without needing me to be less.
That matters.
I carry that, too.
Alongside the ink.
Alongside the memory.
Alongside the version of me who refused to disappear.
And when I look at myself now,
I don’t see something to fix.
I see something that adapted,
something that endured,
something that learned how to turn chaos into meaning — and came back whole in a way that is entirely its own.