Category Archives: Drugs

Catching My Breath

“I have made the big decision…I’m gonna try to nullify my life…”

 

You know what’s funny about junkies is, they are so completely predictable.  They isolate, self-medicate, lie, bow out of anything and everything meaningful, rarely answer a call higher than drugs, and are generally completely and entirely irresponsible.  You don’t let them baby-sit or house-sit.  You don’t loan them your car.  You pray they won’t call, since it’s probably a crack at securing money or a safe place to use.  You lose sleep if they don’t call.  You eye them when they’re in your house.  Most of the time, you lose touch with them, whether you mean to or not.

 

It’s amusing how at the first sign of any confrontation, a junkie can instantly transform into the busiest, most reliable, and impressively hardworking person on earth.  When a junkie is faced with the prospect of something like inpatient rehab, there is no one alive who can compete with a junkie for first prize in responsibility, reliability, obligation, a sense of duty, and a full calendar.  “But I have to work!  “People rely on me!”  “I have responsibilities!”  “I can’t pay bills if I leave.”  “My life would fall apart!”  And the ever-conventional: “I just need time.”  Not hard to read in between the lines of why they really don’t want to go.

 

Of course, any junkie already knows his/her life has fallen apart.  Junkies suck at paying bills; they find employment difficult or impossible; they do a piss-poor job of attending to people and things in their life, including themselves; and they have this magical ability to ruin everything they touch.  The reality is, no one needs a junkie around.  It’s worse than wasted space, because it’s just a drain. 

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I can’t stay on track.  Every time I make progress, I lose it.  It’s like trying to hold onto water.  I can do it for a while, but the whole time, the water keeps seeping through hidden cracks in my hands until I’m left clutching air.  I keep trying to go back to where everything went so amiss, but every time I think I reach the inception, I find my mistakes are rooted still more deeply.  This is where I am now: whether or not to do methadone.

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Last time I quit, I promised myself that if I landed here again, I would try it.  I’ve gone in circles so long that I’ve lost my bearings.  Conflicting thoughts about quitting are causing a raging battle inside my head that drowns everything else out.  Reasons for wanting to avoid methadone: inviting The Man into my life, potentially swapping one addiction for a less superior one, cost, and a lot of uncertainty.  I’ve been trying to learn about methadone, but I have so many questions.  I don’t know what it will be like to go down there every day.  I wouldn’t have a say in how much they give me, and what if I get a physician who decides to start lowering my dose quickly?  It seems there is always an introductory cutoff level, usually around 30 or 40 mg.  What if that’s not enough?  Even if it is, it doesn’t deliver the rush like smack.  Sure I could add some benzos or alcohol into the mix, but it’s not the same, and what if they test for those?  Reasons to give it a try: I’m feeling a little threadbare. I keep doing the same thing over and over, and the only thing that changes is that I feel a little more apathetic each go-around.  I need to distance myself from where I get drugs, and I don’t know any other way.  A lot to think about over the next few days.

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Ramblings

I needed to psych myself up for my appointment today, so I thought I would come on here and write a little.  I had good intentions.  Then I decided drinking, pills, and generous doses of daytime & nighttime cold medicine (always an interesting variable to any buzz) might be more effective, so I tried that out.  It worked reasonably well, but once again, I went through my counseling session a little foggy.  Holy shit, it was a nightmare.  It didn’t go well at all.  I think we were on completely different pages.

Now I’m home, and I’m so down.  I’m not sure why.  A lot of things were brought up during the meeting that I never wanted brought up.  So maybe I’m weak, and unable to keep secrets, and vulnerable to things that are so far removed from my daily life that they might as well belong to someone living in an alternate universe.  I don’t maintain boundaries very well, and I violated a boundary within myself that I’ve viewed as sacrosanct for the majority of my life.  No one touches it.  I don’t even touch it.  But I breached it today, and now I’m waiting for something along the lines of a lightning bolt from heaven to knock me over.  What does this mean for the future?  Maybe nothing as far as the whole therapy thing, but maybe everything in my own life.  How many times when we were kids did adults tell us…don’t pick old scabs.  Let them heal.  They can scar.  Leave them alone.  My kindergarten teacher must have said that to kids twice a day.  The lesson hasn’t changed.

I realized today that there is a word I have never said.  I’ve never even typed it.  Does anyone else have a word like that?  I figure everyone must.  I knew its meaning even before I knew the word, but it has been off-limits.  Say it to my face, and I will say, “Fuck you.”  Well, probably not, but I might think it.  The counselor said it in passing, and I wasn’t going to say that to him, obviously.  But I wasn’t prepared.  Couldn’t we have just talked about Christmas for an hour?

Then there’s the issue of Benazir Bhutto’s assassination today.  Grr.  Nothing like an opposition leader being assassinated to put piddley things into perspective.  Ah, yes, her government warned her against gathering publicly after she complained about their insufficient attempts at security…but maybe those insufficient attempts were more deliberate than they seemed…okay, I’m trailing.  Time to sign off, as I don’t want my blog to turn into a drunken rambling.

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Stupid Stupid STupid

Fuck…I relapsed tonight.  Sorry for the language. I might regret it in the morning, at which time I’ll surely hit the edit button, but for now, I’m content wearing out my ‘backspace’ button and choosing to pretend no one will care about my choice of language.  I’m pretending a lot of things.  Like this was a good thing for me.  It occured me tonight (prior to using)…I have been on what is essentially one of the most powerful painkillers known to man for the better part of 29 months.  I don’t typically think of it in those terms, but honestly, who passes up an opportunity like that?

I do still have good intentions.  I used from the stash I still had sitting around, which had been tempting me to no end.  In a crudely honest moment, I know I planned on using it as a safety net when things got a little too scary.  Guess what, tonight was that night.  I currently have no intent to keep using once it’s gone.  Is that possible?  Hell yes it is.  Am I capable of it?  (Do I hear Jaws music playing in the background?)

I do want to apologize.  When I started this blog, I thought, hell yes…like a soul on earth will ever read this shit!…and then I started getting to know the wonderful people who do actually stop by.  Some of you are struggling with your own addictions, some of you steer clear of drugs for all the right reasons, and some of you are in between.  To everyone, I apologize from the bottom of my heart.  Tomorrow is a new day for all of us….

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“Doubt is not a pleasant condition…

…but certainty is absurd.”  ~ Voltaire 

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I’m in this honeymoon phase where I’m off heroin, trying to appreciate that fact in all its simplicity, and adjusting to the immediate changes it’s brought.  I’m settling in.  I’m still gliding on the fact that I’ve done it…I did what I told everyone I was going to do, and…now I’m waiting for something along the lines of the hand of God to swoop down and let me sit upon it for awhile to sustain me.  Just for a bit.

Everyone tells me the hardest part comes once you’re clean.  I can cruise for a short time on the newness of it all.  I can find reward in getting to this point and pleasure in simple things once again (like eating without having to be reminded and coaxed by someone…hmm).  I’ve been through this all before, and it’s never lasted more than a couple of months.  The honeymoon ends; then I find I’m pissed off and scared (and must therefore avoid psychedelic drugs); I get tired of drinking myself into an emotionally anesthetized state; and I panic and go right back to the customary panacea for my troubles…or at least what allows me to ignore them with grand indifference.

I’m headed to an NA meeting tonight.  I’m not very excited, but I’m keeping an open mind.  Maybe that will be the difference this time, or at least a small piece of the puzzle.  I figure I need to change a lot of things.  I’m hoping for the best tonight. 

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Hanging In

I’m still holding out, but it’s getting so much harder.  Some moments bring reprieve, but most seem to amplify the frustration of trying to hang on to sobriety.  Grr.  It’s out of my system, but I have a long way to go before it’s out of my mind.  If I could take on sobriety with none of the associated shit, like stirred up emotions and physical paroxysms, I’d be completely gung-ho for it.  But therein lies the challenge.  How does anyone do it?  It’s a mystery.  Nothing is tiding me over adequately.  I mostly just think I’m cracking up, and the pain from every bump and bruise is excessively amplified.  I keep coming back to the obvious answer…duh, legalize smack…but maybe that’s asking for trouble. 

I sincerely admire anyone who’s kicked an addiction or bad habit of any sort and lived to tell about it.  So much of what life throws at us isn’t a choice, but addiction is a road that’s littered with choices along the way.  Those choices become increasingly entangled with desire, then compulsion, then force, until you risk losing yourself to the chink in your armor completely.  God give me the tools and know-how to repair this hole in myself.

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Fuuuck

Ha!  I blew it.  I debated about whether to post this, but I figure why not.  I won’t get it off my mind until I do.

Today was not a good day.  I was through withdrawals, and today was a counseling session, so I thought I was in like flint.  However, I got messed up beforehand on a brew of booze and substances…no heroin though.  No opiates of any kind.  Therefore, I thought I was doing quite well.  Never mind the fact that mentally, I was in a really dark place.  I was drowning, actually.  But I hadn’t relapsed, so I thought I was coasting on some grand path to realization.  I did, however, have a fantastic stash just sitting in the apartment tempting me with all of hell’s wrath.  I couldn’t bring myself to just get rid of it.  No way.  I might need it.

Round two: I got a ride to the counselor, feeling airy and blithe and indifferent to everything.  The counselor asked questions, and wouldn’t you know, I’m an easy target for straightforwardness when I get loopy.  I was candid and maybe a little frank, or maybe not.  It’s a little blurry.  I didn’t really care because I couldn’t be touched.  I was far removed from the earth, in a celestial realm called who-the-fuck-cares. 

Round three: I guess I could be touched.  Moments passed; my counselor was out of the room, then back with another counselor…both really sweet, genuine guys…and I nodded and agreed with everything they said.  I wasn’t just agreeing to be agreeable…I really saw things the same way.  At least, I think I did.  I had a hard time keeping my train of thought.  I watched their lips move to assist my brain in processing words and deciphering sentences.  Wait…did the second one just say he called the authorities?  Hmm.  Yep, my counselor’s expression seemed to verify what I had heard.  They were speaking quite clearly, but whether due to chemicals or shock (my guess is chemicals), it just wasn’t registering…I would have to go with them when they came?  Like now??  Surely they would give me an hour or two, maybe let me run home to take a shower and down a few beers and grab a six-pack for the journey.  I mean, that’s logical.

The Man came to escort me to the ER.  One of them explained standard procedure: handcuffs go on before departing the building, unless he could talk his partner into waiting until after we were out of the building.  Luckily, his partner was more benevolent, and perhaps after sizing up my 100 lbs, she said no handcuffs today.  I even sweet-talked them into letting me have a cigarette (a vice I succumb to during times of withdrawal), and I could tell their decision to indulge me was a begruding one.  That gave me some satisfaction.  I was still traveling in style through who-the-fuck-cares land, and I was feeling tremendous indifference to the whole situation.  I was being called a danger to myself, and I couldn’t disagree, but my more pressing concern was how I would succeed in maintaining my buzz for 72 hours.  Impossible.  Come on, how could they be so unfair as to deny me such a sacrosanct entitlement?

The ‘KO’ [thanks to Kevin Olsen for that one] came a few hours later, when I crashed.  I was in the guarded section of the ER, shivering and shaking, desperately trying to figure out how I could ask the guard to let me sneak out for a cigarette if I promised not to run.  I would even wear the breezy hospital gown as surety.  Maybe I could order a beer from the cafeteria.  I needed alcohol.  Surely between the two younger guards who were flirting with me, one of them would be willing to slip me some potent drugs.  There had to be a way around this…the reality of the situation grew beyond unsettling as it was compounded by increasing sobriety.  I tried various tactics on the nurses.  First I tried charm.  Then I tried reason.  Then I tried arguing my rights, which were apparently none at the moment.  These nurses were hardened veterans.

My primary goal was to convince the doctor and social worker that all was well, and I was safe to leave.  Unbelievably, I talked my way out of the 72-hour hold.  It took a healthy amount of deception and dishonesty.  However, I didn’t realize the social worker would call my counselor.  For this, I feel genuinely guilty.  I have no hard feelings, and it didn’t affect my trust.  However, I’ve worked hard to be honest with him, and now I’ve broken that.  I value honesty, but more importantly, my release from the hold was an implication that he either made a miscalculation or had the wrong idea.  It doesn’t sit well with me that I put him in a bad light.  If I could just be honest, I would tell him he did the right thing.  I’ll have to ponder that one.  However…for now, I’m just happy to be home.

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Knight in Tarnished Armor

My heart breaks for him at times.  He has been through the mire and survived to tell about it.  He rarely talks about it…but for some reason, he chose to trust me years ago and open up.  Maybe it was because I wasn’t sober at the time and he thought I wouldn’t remember; but I did, and he continued to be open to me.  It created a unique bond of trust that has never broken completely, no matter how many times it’s been tested.  His childhood was a nightmare, and I know it’s affected every decision he’s ever made, but he made it through and doesn’t look back all that often.  He’s hurt me immensely, but the times he’s been there for me are more touching and sweet than words can convey.  He is a cultural relativist to a fault, which spills over into refusing to blame his parents for his flaws, and refusing to blame me for mine.  If he were in charge of the world, we would all be doomed.

 

The first time I met him, I thought I was in love.  I didn’t know God could make people as extraordinary as him.  I spilled over him like water, and I thought I was the luckiest girl on earth to have captured his interest.  The second time I was around him, I didn’t stop crying for days.  I was really young.  I thought I could save him, and I thought he could save me.  I think he believed that too.  He became my family.  I was so vulnerable to him at times that I was sure he would be the death of me.  I fought not to fall for him completely and get lost in his existence.  I was weak for his eyes, his smell, his laughter, his charm.  His balance of intellect and passion was intimidating.  His presence was electrifying.  I thought there was nothing and no one he couldn’t master.  I still believe that.  I’m convinced the temperature in a room is always hotter around him.

 

He has a soft spot for people who are vulnerable, but he can lash out at them too.  He made me feel protected, something I had never really felt.  It was intoxicating.  He became a sort of parent figure.  I was young, and I was enraptured.  By letting him be my knight in shining armor, I forgot how to protect myself.

 

I watched him carve out his niche in the world.  He focuses all of his efforts on the material.  It makes me sad, and I used to try to change his convictions, but he never changes for anyone except himself. 

 

When I needed help, I went to him, and he took me under his wing with sympathy and sincerity.  He showed me a path that he warned was dark and dangerous, but I followed him anyway.  My life has been reeling since then.  He handed me ecstasy.  We became entangled again, and this time he broke and cried for me.  It was strange to see him vulnerable to me, when I have been vulnerable to him so many times.  We have been reckless…I think we both quietly wonder if we will be each other’s downfall.  That remains unknown, but we carry on in an ebb and flow of using each other and trying to save each other.  He still scrapes me up and puts me to bed sometimes, and I still stroke his back when he has nightmares. 

 

I pray for release.  I’ve lost so much, and he’s taken it without apology.  I can’t find my way out.  After everything, I am still weak to him.  Loyalty and debt outweigh reason.  Every day I wonder how this will end. 

 

 

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