Tattoo
The warm weight of a surgically gloved hand rests against my
fleshy side
Gravity heavy and secure
With the flickering buzz and hum
Burning needles singe the wicks of my nerves endlessly
Knives meticulously sawing, cutting, piercing, scraping,
stabbing
Blades with heavy feet
Running with varied cadence across epidermal topography
I cannot outrun the pain
Carving canyons of smoldering tissue
Scouring the image in
The picture must be birthed through the narrow canal of pain
A throbbing river
Waves of lightning ink surge, burst, and sear
Buried under layers
Of trauma
Emotional wounds rise
As the needles dive in
Which I have survived
Creating…
Art
This last week I got my first tattoo. It was 5 hours of the
most intense pain I’ve ever experienced. Sometimes, depending on where the
tattoo needle was, it felt like a hot knife scraping my flesh. Other times it
felt like my tattoo artist was Captain Ahab sadistically and meticulously
harpooning a beached Moby Dick with a magical harpoon set aflame by Hades and
concentrated ghost pepper extract. That was a long time to try every pain
tolerance technique I’ve heard of or could imagine.
I told myself to imagine the pain was pleasurable…nope,
didn’t work. I tried feeling the pain and telling myself, “It’s okay. You’re
safe. Those are just needles. You’re in no harm.
Holyshitballsoffirewhatyouarefeelingistherealestmotherfuckingpainever!!! And
you’re still safe. Those are just needles. It’s okay. It’s OKAY. It’s OKAY!!!”
I tried staring at a single thing in the room so that everything else would
fade away. I ended up staring at almost every single thing in my sight for at
least a few minutes each before the pain returned as quickly as it would
sort-of-fade-away but not-really-fade-away. I tried focusing on a beautiful
tree in my mind while breathing on the hairs of my left forearm while my right
hand was tightly gripping the thigh part of my jeans and clenching my teeth. I
held my breath for as long as the needle was on my skin and took a breath
whenever the needle wasn’t touching me, imagining I was surfacing for air while
swimming. I imagined I was David Blaine doing some feat of endurance. I
imagined I was Lance Armstrong and the pain was the lactic acid in my legs
while I powered up the hills of the Tour de France. I listened intently to
whatever was streaming from Pandora, even the commercials. I kept telling
myself this is only a moment in time and it will be over soon. I did those
things and more, cycling between different survival techniques for 5 long
hours.
And after all was said and done, my tattoo artist told me he
was impressed with how I sat. Although I was in constant agony, he heard
neither a peep nor felt a strong twinge from me.
Speaking of which, I almost forgot to mention a particular
pain tolerance technique I used. It was one that kind of shocked me, which I’ve
used before for other painful things in life, and that I’m not proud of. I told
myself that I deserved the pain. In those moments I imagined the pain to be
miniscule to the pain I may have caused others. In my mind I minimized my pain
by comparing it to others who I imagine suffer more than me…the mother in the
throngs of child birth, people who have been tortured, all those who had ever
suffered intolerable injuries and sicknesses. I told myself I’ve been a bad
person before and this pain pales in comparison to what I should suffer for all
the times I fucked up…so bear it and don’t be a bitch.
It scared me that I could think that way and really tap into
such feelings, but in other ways I’m not surprised. I know the persecutory and
minimizing voice inside me that came out has been the result of a collection of
angry voices in my life. Unhealthy internalizations. Guilt derived from a
punitive superego made manifest. It is what evil wants me to believe. But
although pain is inevitable, regardless of whether or not it is deserved, it
doesn’t mean I need to join its efforts to tear down. Getting the tattoo just
reminded me I still have a lot of healing to undergo…healing that forms a
beautiful picture.
