My tattoo. I decided to have it removed for one reason: It started to look bad. That’s it! See my original drawing of the tattoo below…

The once intricate, high contrast image had spread into one indistinguishable, blue-grey band on my arm. The tattoo no longer looked how it did at age sixteen, when I got it. Here’s a photo of the image I drew for the tattoo. It was done high school, while in class, during lecture. Looking at this image triggers the faint smell of graphite pencils and wet-N-wild products as part of a sensory memory.

Inner arm, laser treatment #10:

I loved my tattoo and was proud of it. I still am. The tattoo was a declaration of independence from an oppressive, and often abusive, childhood. As a child, one has little control over their life. The tattoo was a statement: “I’m in control. I’m an artist. I’m ready to fight for what I believe in.” It was a permanent statement, as it was a permanent mark on my flesh. I’ve lived up to my fleshy statement.

Fast forward to several years later, to now. My message is the same. I no longer need the vehicle of a bruised band on my arm to convey it.

A few years ago, I realized how I oft looked upon the distorted ink on my arm with a teary, warm nostalgia. “Forget you, Mom and Dad! Hello, world!” My message has been fine-tuned since my teenage years, and it resonates daily in my life. Collectively, as Americans, we have the ability based on education, technology and a unique, strong first-world economy that removal by laser is available, and is somewhat affordable.

I’ve no regrets in life. It is the only way to live. Yes, I could’ve done things differently, or better, in hindsight. At the end of the day, however, I do not regret anything I’ve done.

Im considering images for another tattoo at age 50. Who knows, it might be in the same spot. Or maybe my other arm. I’ll let you know.