Day 23: My favorite thing in the world

It’s July 2003 just a few months shy of when I moved to Missoula. My whole family is going through a grieving process over my grandmother and aunt’s recent deaths. Stroke complications and cancer, respectively. Amongst this badness we learn that my dad’s twin brother has cancer as well. Cancer of the everything. I am on Lexapro (I'm planning a post about this later). Additionally "L" and I are pretty serious and starting to go over how the move should be handled. The talks aren’t going well.

Truly not the best of times in my life, but all of this led me to something great: tattoos.

I always liked tattoos, at least the idea of them. My parents had friends with tats, and my brother had a few too. There was nothing taboo about them. At all. To me the tattoo represents a chance to sport art on your body, and that is cool.

Faced with all the shit in my life I decided I needed something changed, and a tattoo does change you. It’s an experience unlike anything else. If you’ve never got a tattoo before allow me to describe it: pain. It hurts, but soon your body goes into shock and the needles just tickle. Afterward everything tingles from the adrenaline. (I myself shake.) It’s the adrenaline that makes it fun. Just like jumping out of a plane gives someone a rush, the tattoo provides a high. It’s addicting.

I chose Matt Perez at Painless Steel in Butte for my first tattoo a feather with a few words written around it that mean courage and bravery that sits on my left shoulder blade. The feather was in memory of my grandma; the words were about what it took to get through everything that year.

Going through that physical pain sort of put the emotional pain in perspective. It ended, and soon, with time and a couple nights of drinking (post Lexapro that is), I got over the emotional pain of my family’s tough times.

A year after this first tattoo I was working at Montana State Hospital, a place where everyone has tattoos. I felt odd tingles and started staring at pictures thinking, “Wow, that’d look great on my arm.” Finally it became too much to handle So I got a moon tattooed opposite the feather. This one was for my brother who sports a sun on his arm (we’re like night and day, get it?). Again, Perez did this one.

Shortly after this ink job my other grandma died. This would be the seventh death of someone I loved over what I like to call “Three Really Bad Years.” Not knowing how else to deal with this latest death I got shamrock on my arm with a Celtic knot wrapped around it. (Bonus story: This past March I spent St. Patty’s day at the Union Club. I wasn’t sporting any green and the bartender started giving me hell about it. In response I pulled up my shirtsleeve to show her the shamrock and said, “Real Irish people don’t need to wear green shirts.” She comped my Guinness. Bonus Bonus story: “J,” from my post about love, and I first bonded because of my tattoos.)

Last year I got my first tattoo just for me: a biohazard sign. When people ask me why I got this, I explain that it’s fun growing up on a Superfund Site, but it probably means I’m full of poison.

With everything going on in my life now – you know, that whole quitting thing – I’m feeling the tingles again. Big time. Problem is that I don’t have the cash to get a new one, and so I’m stuck wanting… looking at my four tattoos and imagining more…lots more.

*sigh*

Anyway. Not a huge day today so that’s why I’m talking about tattoos. The cold still has me kind of weak feeling. Plus, Super Tuesday meant too many pitchers. So bad choice really.

See you tomorrow.