Meaningful Ink

People don't realize that tattoos are more than just ink on the skin. They are symbols of strength, memories of courage, mementoes of a life worth living, and mausoleums to those we have lost. It is at equal times, beautiful getting tattooed and tortuous. It's not the physical pain that makes it torturous, it is the emotional release of pain that scars you more than the ink ever will. Sometimes, we need the pain to remind us that we are living.

That is what my tattoos do for me, they remind me that I am alive. Isn't it ridiculous that I need ink forced into my skin to be reminded that said skin is still living? But as the artist himself said, “tattoo people are all a little fucked up”. These tattoos tell stories that mean something to me. My mother would argue that it's all nonsense and that I don't need my tattoos. What she doesn't get is that for some people, it isn't a need, it is intrinsic to who we are, we are people who hold our demons so tightly inside, that they seep out onto our skin.

My hourglass tells the tale of me. I am the sinking ship unable to stay afloat and drowning in the sands of time. Every speck of sand is a moment of my life that has the potential to be wasted or treasured. I have wasted so many, that I feel half sunk. Anchored in and being drug down.

The purple rose is for Lynnie-Poo. The pain and anger I feel when I think about what we have lost. It's a reminder that she is always with me, even though she is gone from this world.

My candle, is for my Pop-Pop but also, for myself. For the first time I stood up in front of a crowd and spoke the words that I wrote. My words are so personal to me. It's as though every time someone reads them they are staring at me naked and defenseless. At fourteen, I stood up in front of my entire family and read the words that to me, embodied my Pop-Pop. If it had been a league of strangers in that funeral home, it would have been so much easier, but since it was family watching, it was family judging. Families never forget the moments when you fucked up or when you embarrassed yourself, that's what they are there for.

The mandala on my left arm covers the scars there that shame me daily. The mandala has many meanings, some of them are as a symbol of peace and coming full circle. I felt that at that time in my life, I had come full circle and was ready to start on a new path. A path that has been just as bumpy as the scars on my arm, hidden under beautiful meaningful ink.

I took my best friend to get her first tattoo. She wanted to honor her late mother and to purge her pain. She opted for a huge floral piece on top of her foot. I watched as she sat still as a statue and sweating out her agony. She never shed a tear but by then I think all her tears had fallen and salted the earth.

I hope my friend's tattoo brings her a slice of peace and maybe a moment of joy. That when she sees it, she is reminded that raw pain cannot last forever, and can sometimes fade into a low level ache until that too becomes a memory of harsher days. My wish is that it gives her the hope she needs to face each day. The hope that today will be a better day than the last, and even if it isn't, even if the pain of life and death swamps her, I hope she knows that better days are always on the horizon. And, if nothing else, I hope that tattoo reminds her, that I will always be there if she lets me, sitting right next to her, ready and willing to hold her hand and help her shoulder the pain, whenever and wherever she needs me to.