This friday I found myself in a tattoo parlor after a rather frustrating and albeit shitty week. A medical condition I have decided to remind me that I do in fact have it and that this fact is something I have to live with. To be quite honest, I’m doing incredibly well and consider myself nothing but blessed but still being blindsided with symptoms can cause you to forget how well off you really are. In an ironic twist, the medicine I’m taking in order to derail the symptoms I’m experiencing can actually cause the very problems I’m already having. They also cause mood swings and depression. I bring this up only because I have never experienced what depression from a medication feels like. Until now. And the overall funk I was in it was what got me to the parlor to get a permanent scar on my body (now my third).
There’s something life affirming about getting a tattoo. It feels like you’re flipping off the world. I’m not sure exactly why this is, but it is certainly therapeutic and did some wonders for my morale which as of now is still on shakey ground (but probably a bit better). So what tattoo did I get? Well I got something I know I’ll never be without. I got something that is a constant. I got love. Love in old english lettering.
Love is a rather simple thing when you think about it. It only gets all muddled when you over think it. And everyone loves something. There has never been a moment in time where there was no love. In the worst of situations there is love. Sometimes it’s hard to see, but it’s there. And I realized that even with all my troubles of the week I have love in my heart. I love my family. I love my friends, new and old. I love my records. I love my books. I love my notebooks. I love the awful prose I’ve written in them. And because I love all these things that make up me, I guess I love myself too. And that’s a pretty great feeling.