Tattoos Hurt.

Tattoos hurt.

Anyone who says they don’t, is lying.

I got my first tattoo when I was 18. I got it because I could. I used a credit card to pay for it and gritted my teeth for the thirty minutes it took for the guy to ink jackpot cherries on my left cheek (not the one on my face).
There’s something about getting a tattoo. It’s invigorating. It makes you feel dangerous. Tough. I also felt like for the first time in those 18 years, I was in control of my decisions. And if I wanted a tattoo, I could get one. As long as I had a working credit card, I could make it happen. I was rebellious. I remember showing off my new ink at a party that same night (yes, the one on the left cheek) and loving people’s reactions…

“You’re crazy! Did it hurt?”

I felt sexy and cool. And very tough. I didn’t get another tattoo for almost 14 years. After the boys were born, I thought about getting another one, but I didn’t know what I wanted and wasn’t anxious to go thru the pain again, either.

But something happened to me when Brody was diagnosed with autism. I felt this overwhelming stress and pressure, similar to that pressure you feel a couple weeks before giving birth or closing on a home. This…restlessness. I used to cut my hair when I was stressed, but that wasn’t going to do the trick. I had to do something more permanent. I longed for that rebellion and sense of control. So my mind returned to the tattoo. I felt so out of control about everything else, it was time to take the reigns, if even for 30 minutes.

On Super Bowl Sunday, while Matt watched the game and the kids fell asleep, I drove to Iron Age. I told Matt I was “just going to look.” Yeah right. He knew exactly what I was going to do.

I sat with Darren, the tattoo guy, and he drew up the boys’ names for me. One scripted, cursive name for each wrist. Black ink. And about 30 minutes later, they were done. I loved them. I texted the images to Matt immediately, He texted back,

“They’re beautiful.”

Six months later, I started feeling that restlessness again. But really, another tattoo? I heard they are addictive, but hadn’t experienced the reality of that compulsiveness until now. Brody is starting kindergarten, and we had some serious ups and downs this summer. I was upset that Brody was not in “normal kindergarten.” I was angry. Sad. All of those feelings I was embarrassed to admit, and that need, that drive to take control was strong, over powering. It was time for more ink, or it was time for a pixie cut.

It was a random Monday night. I found myself on Delmar again. My usual tattoo artist, the one who drew up the last two tattoos, was slammed and he couldn’t fit me in until next week. But that just wouldn’t do, I had to get this done, pronto. I remembered watching that Dave Navarro tattoo “reality” show on A/E and one of the guys on the show worked at Enigma, this place just a couple blocks away. I walked in and surprisingly, they weren’t too busy.

“What do you want to get?” This large, Duck Dynasty look alike at the front desk greeted me as I walked in the door. He was covered from head to toe in ink. He was painted. Fitting, right? Just what you’d expect from a receptionist at a tattoo shop. I explained what I wanted, and that I really wanted to do this. Tonight.

“Travis will do it,” he said, as he walked into the back room.

I sat in the waiting area and chatted with the girl next to me and two other guys who worked there. They were “apprentices” at the shop. I spent about 15 minutes talking to this one guy, Dom, about the portrait tattoos of his goddaughter on his thigh.

Travis came out and he asked if I had any other tattoos, I reluctantly told him about the cherries. “Where are they?” He asked, right in the lobby.
I replied, “Well, they are uhhhh…..”

“On your ass? Sounds about right…really the ass is the most painful spot. Where do you want this one?” He sounded like a doctor asking me about what medications I was taking.

We talked about what I wanted. He showed me a couple of designs. As he walked out and into his “office” to draw it up, I sat and sweated on the couch in the lobby area. Here I was again, more tattoos. But I couldn’t help it. Let’s be honest, it was this or alcohol. That was my state of mind.

Travis came back and showed me the drawing. I told him it was time to roll. We walked over to his “office” area and we small talked as he prepped equipment. The tattoo was going on my left side, right on my rib cage. He did a couple test lines. And it hurt. Bad. Ouch.

“Girl, you have got to be still,” he was coaching me like the dads in Lamaze class. The pain was pretty shocking. I asked if he was used to people crying.

“Sometimes…you’re doing fine. Breathe. You've given birth, this should be nothing!”

After the first 15 minutes, I was fine. I hit my stride. In fact, several other clients and artists came over and watched him work on the tattoo. What I found the most impressive, is the openness I felt with this person as he finished the work. I told him all about Brody, about my marriage of 10 years, about my other tattoos. He thought “More Than Words” was the perfect tribute for my little boy. He showed me the several tattoos he had for his son.

“So when did you get the wrist tattoos?” He asked, in the middle of the letter “H” and “N.”

“In January,” I said. He stopped the needle, turned to me and said,

“Girl, you need to slow down on your next one.”

Really? I thought. The guy with seven neck tattoos and a huge tattoo of a Cherokee Indian on his thigh is telling me to slow down? Who does he think he is? But maybe he had a point. I shouldn’t have to submit myself to pain to feel in control. Feeling in control is not about ink, it’s about your life. Tattoos are not only control for me, but a tough factor. I feel like if I can take a tattoo, or several tattoos, than I can take anything. That if a teacher or another parent sees my tattoos, they’ll think, “She’s one tough bitch, we better not mess with her kids.”

Being tough is important to me. I am going to have to fight for my son. It’s time to get tough. And tough, that is how I found myself lying on my back on a table, getting tattooed, for the sixth time. I was tough. Towards the end of the tattoo, other artists started to wander over to Travis. Again they asked questions about the significance of “More Than Words.” It felt good to talk about it again, even with complete strangers.

At the end of the session, I stood up and looked in the mirror. My tattoo was big and bad-ass. I felt that same rush of rebellion, control and toughness. I lifted my tank top, and stood in front of the mirror in his “office,”

“It’s perfect.”

Travis walked me to the lobby and I paid my bill. I felt exhausted, elated, and sore. They gave me me instructions on how to care for my tattoo. I explained again that this “wasn’t my first rodeo.” I shook Travis’s hand, and told him I would be back.

“You better wait. Slow down. It’ll be alright.”

Sometimes words from strangers are just what you need. It will be alright. And I don’t need a tattoo or five of them to show people I can fight for Brody. I’ll do whatever it takes to prove it, to show it.

I have to admit though, I’m thinking about that next tattoo. I know I’ll wake up one day and crave that sense of control. And I’ll make my usual trip to the tattoo studio, and prove I’m tough. Just one more time.