I’m tired. Maybe it was the push to get to closing on the condo. Maybe it was the move, which took a week longer than expected. Or the week with my mother and father (divorced) on the anniversary of my brother’s death, or the amount of alcohol I consumed to get through that week.
Whatever the cause, Monday and Tuesday it felt like pure depression. I was unable to get up or do anything constructive. But Tuesday night I had an appointment with Troy, my tattoo artist, and I wasn’t going to let that pass while lying in a pot-induced stupor. I got my ass up, took a cab to South 4th Street and sat for my back piece, a piece that’s been two years in the planning.
I sat for five hours.
With two more hours to go in order to finish it. But I have my back piece, and I love it. Unfortunately the malaise continues. I’ve read up on healing tattoos and most of the posts are about topical care. I’m thinking, I just assaulted a good portion of the largest, and necessary, organ of my body. I’m wondering what that does systemically. My immune system is wondering what kind of idiot I must be to voluntarily sit for five hours of puncturing with needles.
I vowed not to drink alcohol during the healing process. I’m trying to cut down on the cigarettes. I’m drinking water. But my addictions (coffee and smokes specifically) are plotting against me.
My aftercare regimen is something I learned from experience. I start washing the second day, and use a mild soap once or twice a day. I use non-frangranced lotion, lightly. I let my tattoos peel on their own. No picking! No matter how ugly it looks. No matter how impatient I am to see the ink underneath. No ointments, no soaking, and absolutely no Vaseline.
Still, I can’t help wondering if my body is pissed at me.