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Insane
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The metallic buzz fills the room and I brace myself for the touch of the needle on my waiting flesh. A deep breath in and out, and I feel his touch on my back, framing the exact spot. I tense further, then force myself to relax before he can say anything. I can sense his smile and the moment of connection makes me relax completely. So completely that I have to fight the urge to jump when the needle touches my skin, impaling ink into the canvas of my back at more than a thousand pulses a minute. The smell of tattoo ink fills my nose and I am glad to notice that I haven’t held my breath against the pain.
My artist picks the needle from my skin to refresh the ink and I flex my shoulders carefully. The sting fades very quickly, a mixed blessing, and only too soon I must brace myself for the renewed sting of the needle on my skin. As the long process of inking a new tattoo begins, I start to doze in spite of the pain, a habit that surprises me every time I get a new piece. This time, my mind is guided by the smell of antiseptic and the droning buzz of the tattoo gun and I find myself reviewing the night that marked the beginning of my journey to this moment, to this tattoo.
Oddly enough, I don’t remember much of that night. I dream of it sometimes, strange disjointed visions reminiscent of soap opera flashbacks, and from that I’ve pieced together most of the details. My lashes part gummily as I struggle to open my eyes, and I blink at the glare of the overhead spotlight. I try to turn my head in confusion, not recognizing my surroundings. A strange face swims into view and I strain to focus. I hear a low, strangled moan and realize, as pain washes over me, that I’m the one moaning. I close my eyes again and that’s the last thing I remember until I awaken in a strange room, sunlight streaming into my eyes. A slow, fuzzy inspection of the room I’m in reveals it to be a hospital room, complete with wall mounted television and iv needle in my arm.
I must have dozed again, because the next thing I remember is being awakened by a nurse in brightly patterned scrubs. She did whatever it is that nurses do and left the room, returning fairly shortly with a doctor. He explained that I had been admitted to the hospital via the emergency room, where I had been treated for an overdose. Fearing reprisal, my ride to the hospital had not stayed, and the doctors were forced to treat me without knowing the drugs I’d taken. The list was short and familiar, though repetitive. I’d awakened the previous day, probably around noon, and done my usual hit of crystal meth. About midafternoon, I’d bumped again, then popped a valium to take a nap. I got up around nine pm, and did a hit of crystal to wake up, then got dressed and left. I bumped on the way to the club, and then again after my first drink. I ran out sometime around midnight, and bummed a hit from an acquaintance. I only remember bumming the hit because my friend smelled like lemons and we laughed about it while we did the hit. Things sort of got blurry after that. We decided to hit an after hours club, and I bumped again on the way. I remember doing a hit of ecstasy after we got there, and that’s the last thing I remembered before I woke up in the hospital.
Before being released from the hospital, my doctors made it painfully clear that I’d nearly died from the drugs I’d done. This wasn’t my first visit to the hospital thanks to my drug use, but it was the most serious. I found that I did not like the idea of death. Sounds simplistic and overly dramatic, but that’s exactly what turned the tide. It took several years and lots of tries, but I finally kicked the drugs for good in October 1994.
I was abruptly shocked from my walk down memory lane by a particularly painful dig of the needle in my flesh. I was unable to suppress the screech and curse and I heard my artist chuckle behind me. “I thought you were asleep,” he said. I grinned and turned my head to look at him over my shoulder. “Nope, just thinking. I forget what a light touch you’ve got.” I laughed and settled my head on my arms again, “Or I did until just then.” He laughed again and got back to work. The last hour and a half of my tattoo was too painful to sleep or doze or even think about anything except remembering to breathe.
Finally, just when I thought he was never going to finish he sprayed my back with the wonderful, cooling antiseptic spray and wiped it a final time. “Go look at it, before I coat it,” he said, pushing away from the chair upon which I was straddled. I got up and moved to the three-way mirror, turning to gaze for the first time on my new phoenix tattoo. She rose in glorious, flaming color on my back, rising from the ashes just like I had risen from the ashes of my own life ten years previous. I felt drained, emotionally and physically. The pain from the tattoo needle was a fitting tribute to the ten years of pain and struggle to beat the addiction that nearly killed me.
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“When facism comes to America it will be wrapped in the flag and carrying a cross.”
~Sinclair Lewis
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