The Brown Dragon

On September 10, 2004, I got my first tattoo. It speaks of the lessons I learned from my "coming out" experience. I wrote about the first tattoo previously on this blog, and you can read about it here if you like.

Now, if you read that post, you will see that I planned out the tattoo's timing and meaning to the extreme. It was a very important reminder to me of a milestone in my life that continues to shape me to this day. After I got the first tattoo, I did not necessarily intend to get another one. For one thing, I did not foresee another event that would be as life-changing as my “coming out," so it seemed that any new tattoo would be somewhat trivial in comparison to the meaning behind the first. Little did I know how wrong I was.

As I have mentioned on this blog before, I lost my boyfriend to suicide on October 13, 2005. And, compounding the loss of my boyfriend was the trauma of being the one to find him hanging from a rope in his bedroom. This sent my life into a turmoil that could have easily become a tailspin. However, through the aggressive love and constant support of amazing friends and family, I survived even through pain deeper than I had ever known.

We are approaching one year since we buried Alfred. Due to circumstances surrounding government regulations and transporting remains out of the country (part of his remains buried in his home town in the Philippines and part at his adopted home here in Chicago), we did not have the burial service here until February 15, about 4 months after his death. As I was thinking about this today, I decided I would share the story of my second tattoo. I have told it to a few close friends, but I think it would be good to share here in hopes that perhaps it can be an encouragement to someone else going through a dark time in his or her life.

I think it is natural, upon the loss of a loved one, to desire to do something to keep his memory alive, perhaps to convince oneself that the person is not forgotten. Even as I was slowly beginning to face the reality that Alfred was gone from my life forever, I knew that I wanted to do something that would remind me of him and the wonderful memories we shared during our all-too-brief time together. I’m not certain exactly at what point the idea of getting another tattoo entered my mind, but certainly by early December 2005 I was seriously considering it. And, the more I contemplated, the more I realized how meaningful a tattoo could be in this situation. So, on December 29, 2005, I received my second tattoo. Here, as concisely as possible, is the meaning and significance of the tattoo:

The design of the tattoo was much easier to decide upon than the first one I got. I knew I wanted something that would be a good memory for me of Alfred, yet I was level-headed enough to know I wasn’t going to inscribe his name on my arm or anything like that. Also, on the slightly more shallow side of things, I kinda wanted a tattoo that would be a little more “exciting” than my first. The idea that quickly came to mind was Alfred’s nickname which I often used, “Brown Dragon.” I am not certain where he got that nickname, but it was one that I thought would be a great memorial idea. A brown dragon would be meaningful to me, yet it would avoid potential awkwardness in future relationships both because the significance would be muted apart from my explicit explanation and because it would just look like a nice tattoo (so I hoped and so I believe).

I intentionally chose to have the size of the tattoo be much larger than my first, symbolizing that this was an experience that overshadows even the most difficult moments of my life to this point. The pain I have gone through is beyond anything I have ever imagined, or imagined being able to endure. And it is this pain and its results that add the most meaning to the tattoo.

The process of getting the tattoo applied took about 2 hours. During the application, it feels as if the artist is taking a knife and cutting you open. It struck me that, out of this rather intense pain came a thing of beauty. If I had not gone through the pain, I could not have seen the beauty of the artwork. As with the tattoo (though on a completely different scale), Alfred’s death has brought intense pain into my life. And yet, I have seen beauty emerge even from that pain. I believe the experience has made me a better friend, son, brother. Where I have had a lifelong tendency to be somewhat self-absorbed (perhaps not actively selfish, but just so much in my own little world that I don’t notice the needs of others), I have found myself more actively looking for ways to show kindness, friendship, and love to those in my life. Relationships that had been strained I have sought to restore. I have written letters to my family for no other reason than to remind them that I love them and am thankful to be in their lives. The experience has helped me to re-evaluate my life, and goals that had faded have come into sharper focus. I have determined to make major changes in my career, aiming to return to school to enter a profession that will help people and make a difference in a way that marketing and advertising never could. And, I remember daily the preciousness of each moment I have in this life and attempt to make the most of the time I have been given. None of these beautiful things would have happened had I not gone through the pain.

When I look into the mirror of my life, it will not be the pain I see; it will be the beauty that has resulted from the pain.A tattoo is permanent. It becomes part of who I am. In a sense, it changes me. If I bleached my hair or had a nose job, I would in some way be a different person. The tattoo is similar. For the rest of my life, when I remove my shirt, people will see something different that was not there before. It will become an element that, combined with the rest of my body, defines me. In this case, the size of the tattoo causes it to be a quickly-noticeable element of who I am. However, its location (on my lower torso) makes it so that it will only be seen when my shirt is removed. I will go through much of my life with nobody seeing it. When I am dressed up and the “real” me is covered by colorful clothing, those around me will not see the tattoo. But, when the shirt is removed and I am at my most “real”, unhidden moments, it will be clearly seen. The parallels to my recent experiences are easy to see. I am a different person because of Alfred’s suicide. That is permanent. This trial has been so deeply imprinted upon my soul that I have been forever changed. Sure, in much of my life, I will go about my business without those around me noticing the change. But, in those “real” moments of life, when I have the opportunity to help a hurting friend, when I can reach out to someone who has lost hope, when I express to my future lover how much he means to me and how much I value every moment with him, the impact this has had upon me will be as clear as the tattoo on my body.

The first several days after the tattoo is applied, that area of skin is very tender. Just slight pressure would bring back the pain of the application. For a week or two, it is even ugly, as the area scabs over while the body heals itself. For the first month or so, the tattoo is thought of often, both because of its novelty and because of the pain that is felt. But, as time passes, the skin heals, the pain fades, and the novelty wears off. Active thoughts of the tattoo diminish. Yet, although I will think less and less often and long about the tattoo over the months and years to come, it will still be a part of me. As with my first tattoo, the subconscious reminders will continue long after the novelty wears off. Again, the comparison should be clear. The initial days and weeks of dealing with Alfred’s suicide were extremely painful. It took almost no pressure for me to feel the pain and fall into tears. There have even been some very “ugly” moments, where I have made decisions that were hurtful to myself and others, allowing the scabs to obscure the beauty that would eventually emerge. But, every day, as I learned to stand the loss, the pain lessened, and even became bearable. Now, my thoughts are less and less consumed by the heartache, but the reminders will always be there, and they will come to mind on occasion for the rest of my life.

But, as time passes, when I look into the mirror of my life, it will not be the pain and scabs I see; it will be the beauty that has resulted from it. Certainly I will never be thrilled about the pain I went through, but I will grow to be grateful for the beauty that it produced.

For my friends and family, I trust it will be the same. The reality of my losing a love to suicide is a permanent part of my life and who I am. Alfred, my love for him, and the loss I have felt will have an influence upon the rest of my life. But this does not have to be a “scab” that repulses or holds people at arm’s length. Instead, I hope they will see the beauty that has resulted.

I hope they will understand that, when I express my concern over their pain, heartache, and struggles, it is no longer the casual, flippant words that we so often toss about with our acquaintances. Rather, I really want to know how I can be an encouragement, and my concern over my own convenience has lessened dramatically.

When I ask “How are you?”, I actually want to know. I don’t ever again want someone I care for to think he is alone, or to be without hope and in despair. I want others to know that, if nobody else is there, I will be a true friend.

This is not any sort of self-aggrandizing Messiah complex. Rather, it is just a perspective change resulting from a deep, dark trial that I am determined to see ultimately result in beauty.