noun

1. voluntary self-punishment inflicted as an outward expression of repentance for having done wrong.

As I grow older and go through life’s ups and downs, I find myself faced with the horrors of the many major and minor mistakes I’ve made throughout my thirty-six years on this planet. Whether it be family matters, memories of Iraq, or just my failures; I remain haunted.

For a long time, I was self-destructive. Whether I was drinking, popping Percocet, or finding any substance that would numb me; I was pushing my problems down further and further. When those things wouldn’t do, I would find a fight somewhere. Sometimes in a bar, sometimes with a significant other, but most of all the other side of the mirror.

It wasn’t until I was in therapy in 2023 that I realized I was less manic, depressed, or angry after getting tattooed. At first, I took this to mean that the pain was the vehicle my emotions took to get the fuck out. Later that year, I read about flagellation. For those who don’t know, flagellation was practiced by Christian Monks. They would remove their shirts and walk through the town, whipping their backs with sticks, whips, or even a “cat o’ nine tails” (a flog with nine strands, each with a hook on the end).

While monks did this to show their devotion to Christ, they also performed this act as a form of penance; both for themselves and others. I’m not saying that I get tattoos as an act of religious zealotry. I am, however, saying that I deserve all the pain that comes my way.

This isn’t a “woe is me” entry. This is, however, an admittance that I see tattooing as a much deeper way of healing than I originally thought. Every tattoo I get isn’t just for looks; the journey of getting through it brings me peace.

After all, I’m just a sinner. Maybe that’s why they hurt, it’s all the sin.

Sorry Gramma.

xoxo

-Jake