Shane Niemeyer - The Hurt Artist: My Journey from Suicidal Junkie to Ironman

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A Note to Readers:
The names and identifying characteristics of a few individuals depicted in this book have been changed.

This book is dedicated to all the lost and broken souls struggling to find a way out from the darkness.

For all those who have left us before their time: may they rest peacefully.

Though it does not come easy, true and lasting change is possible, and with it, happiness follows.

Contents

Introduction

The cement floor felt cool against my forehead. My chest was heaving and my guts felt knotted with nausea. My triceps throbbed with the effort to push myself up one more time. I quivered and felt on the verge of collapse. I had no more to give. I tried to slowly lower myself; my vision narrowed, and the ringing in my ears rose to a crescendo. I thudded to the floor, unable to support my own weight any longer. I lay there trying to fight against the dope-sick symptoms that washed over me, gulping for air like a landed fish. I blinked my eyes to clear them of my stinging sweat.

After a few minutes more, I rolled onto my back, raised my feet onto my bunk, clasped my hands behind my head, and started to do my sit-ups. My abdominals, buried under a layer of fat inches thick, burned. I grit my teeth and pushed past the pain, gutting it out before surrendering to my brains urgent shouting to stop. When my heart rate steadied, I stood up and went to my notebook and recorded day ones totals.

Eight push-ups.

Fifteen sit-ups.

Day one was complete. I was glad that Id have another chance the next day.

The clamor of voices coming from the other inmates of the Ada County Jail, an asylumlike assemblage of laughs, shouts, and freakish screams, reminded me of where I was. Not that I needed to remember. Not that I wanted to remember. But I also knew that it was important to never forget this day. I also couldnt forget seventy-two hours earlier, three days to the minute, I imagined, and another moment I spent sprawled on the floor of that same building.

I remember every bit of the hurt like a fever dream.

I watched my fingers quaking from fear and the early onset of heroin withdrawal as they tied off the other end of the extension cord to the railing. I bowed my head and looped the noose around my neck. I shivered as the cold plastic coating of the cord licked my sweat-slimed skin. I stepped over the barrier keeping hold of the top rail with both hands. The metal felt cool against my clammy palms. I leaned out and away, held myself like a figurehead on a ships prow, felt my bodys weight tear at my shoulders.

A minute passed.

Another.

My calves burned, my toes clenched the concrete ledge, fighting involuntarily to maintain their grip.

Tears and snot ran down my face. Blood and bile rose in my mouth. The taste of salt and acid nearly gagged me. My pulse throbbed at my temple, neck, and groin; my balls contracted.

Twelve feet below me, the concrete floor of the Ada County Jails intake unit glistened in the fluorescent light.

It shouldnt be this way; unless this was the final act, some kind of western frontier justice hanging at high noon. I shouldnt be hearing the voices from the yard, the faint static on the public address system overpowering the sound of my blood roiling in my veins.

It should be dark. Everything should be dark when youre about to murder yourself. It should be silent.

Fuck the should s and the would s.

Get your brain to just shut up and do it, already.

At least for once in your life you fucking idiot, do this one thing right.

I stood there, my legs trembling, the sinews in my arms vibrating like plucked guitar strings. Did I have what it took to do this, to really finish this thing off?

* * *

Forty-eight hours before that, I had woken up in the back of my van and struggled against my painfully spasmed muscles to get onto all fours. I rooted through the dumpsterlike contents of my lifea few articles of dirt-crusted clothes, dozens of fast-food bags and wrappers, newspapersand found what I was looking for. I took a long pull and felt the pleasantly astringent taste of vodka rinsing out my mouth mucous. The alcohol flickered a tiny flame in my belly, a meager attempt at warming me. I slapped my hands against my upper arms and rubbed my legs, trying to get the circulation going. A few more swallows, a couple of prehypothermic shivers, and I was good to go.

I patted the pockets of my lone pair of cargo pants and everything I needed was theremy baggie of black tar heroin, my rig, and a small bundle of cash left over from my last grab and dash. I rushed over to the Albertsons on South Vista in Boise and picked up a few things to bring back to my friend Grace and her kids.

Once I brought in the groceries and watched her kids go at their breakfast with delight, I looked over at Grace. Our eyes met for a second, and I smiled. I nodded my head toward the hallway that led to the bathroom.

Sure. Help yourself. She folded her arms across her chest and shrugged.

I went into the bathroom and sat on the toilet. The room reeked of mold, mildew, and Dial soap. The bile rising to my throat nearly gagged me. I leaned into the tub area and cranked open the window inside. I looked down and the shower curtain was crusted and flaking. I looked up at the showers ceiling, the white tile mottled with orange, red, green, and brown splotches, an Impressionists apathetic canvas.

I hadnt showered in days, and my junkie funk, a slightly sweet cheese gone bad odor, mixed with the sour tang of pickle brine, could only have gotten worse if Id bumped against that science project of porcelain and tile. Even in my twisted state, I recognize the irony of my high-handed hygiene ethics.

I rolled up my sleeve, and looked down at my pockmarked forearmmottled with blue, green, yellow, and violet bruising.

I laughed ruefully as I tightened the worn belt around my arm.

Pot. Kettle. Black. Tile. Arm. Who was I to criticize anybodys housekeeping. First, I didnt have a house to keep, and second, what passed for a house, what passed for my life, was anything but in order.

I watched my blood swirl lava lamplike in the syringe for a moment and leaned back as the rush began. My head rested against a pair of pristine monogrammed hand towels. I quickly shifted positions and felt the cool tile against my skull. My world of hurt slipped away.

* * *

An hour later, I was in the hot grip of an Ada County sheriff, being processed at the jail. Photos. Prints. She held me by the wrist with her gorillas grip, and I felt one of the abscesses just above my wrist pop and the putrid smell of my blood and pus reached my nostrils before my eyes saw its ooze spread across the flatbed scanners glass. What should you expect from a junkie whod tapped into nearly every vein in his arms for the last decade and more?

Her disgust was apparent. I didnt give a shit what she thought. Just get this over with, let me lie down someplace. Let me enjoy this last bit of being comfortably numb.

Truth was, I was still feeling something. Despair mostly. Exhaustion certainly. I was so tired of all the never s coming true. Ill never drink and drive. Done that. Ill never do cocaine. Ditto. Ill never inject. I submit as evidence these tracked-up arms, a relief map of resignation to what had come to feel like the inevitable decline.