Puss Filled Toes and Pulsing Highs

Alive and kicking as I settle into my usual hole in the sofa. Alcohol collides with hydrocodone in my blood, and are working together to make me nod. I imagine them waltzing through my veins in my arms. What a beautiful way to spend Sunday evening.

R lays back in my grandmother's recliner; the one she'd sit in and read the paper, scanning the financials to see which directions her stocks were moving. R's left big toe is infected, so I wrapped it with a cotton pad soaked in iodine and gauze--a toe mummy. I told him to lean the chair back to keep his toe elevated. His eyes keep closing softly and his ecig hangs lazily from his mouth. The tramadol and beer have brought him down to my stoned out level. He went to the doctor yesterday, after weeks of pain and my prodding. His toe had kept swelling up and weeping puss, while he worked in the factory. The "doc in the box" prescribed him tramadol and antibiotics to kill the deep infection.

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Now 2 days later, I remain on the sofa. R is sleeping drunk from cider which has brought out his melancholy; I am glad he is asleep because there is nothing I can do to change his emotions. All I ever do is repeat the 3 words we value most: "I love you." Sleep brings peace, always.

My eyes burn from this bright screen, after a few hours of taking online courses for work. It is interesting material, but would be better if I didn't already know it. It's also great because all the tasks my coworker tells me I can't do, I have actually been trained in and now have proof. She is one sour grape, no wonder no one ever picked her.

Downstairs my mother is talking to the cat while she takes her medicine. My father keeps turning on his computer that I dash to the first floor and ask him to turn it down, not using the nicest tone (my mother had already told him but he didn't stop) and he complied.

Now I'm back upstairs, sitting in the dark writing to you. I'm mostly writing to me, so I can maybe make sense of my world. Every day at work seems like a constant cluster fuck, as I dash from each end of the p------y to assist my managers. I enjoy the work, but it is draining when there are never ending problems.

At least I have this quiet time at night, when I can be alone with the words that crowd my mind the rest of the day. Letting them out to run free, I am allowing myself to be free from the burden of keeping these words inside.

I'm the constant witness, and this is my testimony.

Good night my friends,
Lucy

So Close

I was doing so well, while riding the wave of an opiate free say without withdrawal. It felt great being free, besides a headache that couldn't stop pulling me down. My parents and I walked around the used car lots, and looked at the various cars. There was finally one that we all agreed was the one, besides a missing spare tire cover in the back and a strange message on my dad's engine reader about emission cylinders.  Hopefully, I'll soon be riding in my own car once again. I miss the knowledge that no one else is waiting on me or having to hide anything only meant for my eyes.

Back on the sofa, all the world outside has fallen away. I couldn't refuse the gnawing need for opiates, and made myself some tea. Now I could almost nod out. I don't know why I'd ever decide to deny myself these moments together with Sister Midnignt. Perhaps the lack of the sickness has made me forget how bad it is back stuck in the vicious circle. Once my new script comes to fruition, I wonder if I'll take it as needed, or go back to regular dosing. No matter what, I don't want to stop now. I guess I'm simply a fucking junky until the end.

I hate when people lie and pretend that abusing med doesn't mean they're a junky or out of control. It's easier to get high in deep denial, and refuse the label so lovingly bestowed on us. I consider my title a moment of pride, from what I've overcome and who I will become.

From your favorite junky,
Love, Lucy

Selling drugs (legally)

Floating up above the sofa, perhaps I've gone past the atmosphere. Who knows or cares. I have work in two hours, but I'm getting a ride so I'm not worried. Nothing could worry me. I should take some more speed before i leave. I took my 3 20mg adderall 2 hours ago, but it can't keep up with hydrocodone. I'm going to talk to my doctor about taking something without acetaminophen. 1300 mg of tylenol a day stresses your liver. But it don't stress me too much. The hydrocodone isn't working for my pain unless I take them at the same time. I cant wait to see pain management on March 30th and ask. I'm gonna call tomorrow and ask about taking two at a time to help cover all my pain.

My arms are so heavy and tired. Almost too tired to hold this tablet. The beige room with the gray sky shining in behind the tree seems to blanket me as I keep sinking in. I'm trying to float on the surface, so I won't nod out even as it beckons me.

I have begun a job as a pharmacy tech in training. I love it. I want to be a pharmacist. I want to know everything about these chemicals that change us so completely. They keep us well, or at least help us believe we are. I am not going to fuck this up. I am going to work hard to keep on the straight and narrow. I only take what I'm prescribed now, and I feel at least somewhat in control. R holds on to the pills for the future week. He is the best. He takes care of me so well. I am lucky to have him here.

I used up my script early last week. Lope (loperamide--the opiate Imodium) is what kept me well. Thank dog for that. I was still uncomfortable and sick, but at least I could go to orientation and training. I went to my pharmacy and explained that the directions had changed, from 3 to 4 pills a day. They filled it 4 days early. I love the tech who knows me, he is so helpful.

I'm going to let the couch swallow me now, until my face is the only part of me floating on the top. A nap for an hour couldn't hurt.

I love you all,
Lucy

Comfortably Fucked Up

1pm: Today I can't seem to get the temperature of the shower water right. It vascilates between scalding and tepid, with every turn of the nob. Closing my eyes cool water washes over me, I can't help but stare at the basin floor as a possible resting spot. It is not uncommon for me to slowly lower myself on to the cool floor of the shower, a controlled descent. My hands push the shampoo and oil and dirt out of my hair, so that I can once again open my eyes without soap rushing into them. I turn around slowly, bracing myself on the white tiled walls, and stare at the wall beneath the shower head. It begins to morph, becoming convex at the sides, while the other tiles remain flat, unchanging. My gaze is trapped by those pesky afternoon withdrawal hallucinations. I cross my arms under my bust and watch as the water pools in the creases of my arms until rolling down to hit the floor. It might have been hours that I spent standing in the shower, it might not have been me at all. Now clotheth damp hair, I'm still waiting for the hydros to kick in and my stomach to stop rolling.

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8:30pm: My fingers keep tickling the back of my throat until my stomach finally takes the hint. I repeat until my stomach pain finally subsides. I shouldn't have eaten a large blizzard and then dinner. The thought of this makes me feel nauseous again. Purging shouldn't be the answer to this, but I do use purging when either I've drank too much beer or my stomach is rocked out from eating too much. I probably haven't done it in a year or something, at least it's not a usual occurrence in my life. I guess I need to prove to all of you that I  don't have an eating disorder, or something which  is why I'm saying all of this.

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2/26
7:36pm: Depression. Crushing despair, boredom, self-hatred blankets me until I feel it choking around my neck. I want to break this, I just want all of these feelings to disintegrate. Apathy would feel better than this. Although I've accepted a job, my conscience smothers me with guilt because I'm not doing anything. I am a lump on the sofa.

To me, life has no intrinsic meaning. We are all parts of the natural world, with a finite life span, until we decompose and our elemental parts become new natural forms. The only goal I have for life is to be happy. It's a big part of why I use. If life has no greater purpose than for our own enjoyment of the experience, why not feel as good as you can?

No matter my logical conclusions, suicide clouds my mind. I don't really want to do it, I love my family and  R and all of my friends. I feel so low right now. I'm such fucking scum. A junky piece of shit. I guess at least I'm comfortable like this. Comfortably fucked up.

Withdrawal at 75 mph (or 120km)

I hadn't acknowledged the cold tingling running down my back, and the slow building cramps in my stomach. As we careened down the highway, moving at 75 miles as the Department of Public Safety had declared was acceptable. I wiggled a bit in the lane, causing anxiety to creep up my back. There on one of those 60 foot high fly away's that Texas seems to love, my mind picked up on the many uncomfortable symptoms in various parts of my body; the cold sweat, the bowels about to burst, the headache and anxiety hit me in one single wallop. Withdrawal was already here, and I would not be in reach of my pills for at least another hour. Fuck.

Earlier, eating my bowl of Frosted Mini-Wheats (oh so delicious), I thought about taking my medication for the arthritis pain in my knees and hands. I decided not to, since I had to drive later on and I knew it was better not to take them. Without any added thought, I lounged around the house with the beige walls and the beige carpet and the ever glowing TV until it was time to leave.

R came along, he was somewhat angry that I had refused to be party to him getting a 1/4. The ticket had drained so much money, that I couldn't imagine going through it again. Now speeding into North Austin, I wished I had taken that pill. I can drive quite well on opioids--lots of experience--and seeing my psychiatrist while going through withdrawal seemed a bit gauche. I parked the car crooked under some cedar trees, before heading out into the crisp winter air.

"I'm withdrawing."

"From what?"

"I should have taken my hydro earlier..."

"Are you going to be okay?"

"Yeah, I just want to get home."

Now hours upon hours later, I've taken 3 more pills. It slows my mind, as the high grows from that spot behind my forehead and spilling down my shoulders into my arms. Alcohol has only strengthened this feeling. I slump into the couch's warm embrace.

R is pissed. Suddenly, he's hopped up and in the bathroom. I can hear him rattling the sharp's box around. He returns after the toilet flushes, but his arms show no blood or pricks. I don't know what he was doing, perhaps shaking it reminiscing when we had drugs that we could IV. He flops back onto the couch, and zips his fly.

His anger has been simmering most of today. No weed for a while or until we get a place--which he is pessimistic about anyway--is not acceptable to him. I don't really understand, weed has never been a  drug that I would be pissed if I couldn't get it. Cocaine, opiates, speed, now that shit gets me riled up, even while waiting for the late dealer. And the dealer is always late.

My high has peaked, and I want to ride it out all night.
I might as well get started now.

Love,
Lucy

Trying to Get Fucked

But it's never enough. Klonopin, and adderall, and kratom, and Cider: oh my...god I need to add more to this combo apparently.

....a day later....
My doctor prescribed me a transdermal buprenorphine patch for my pain. He has convinced my mother that "narcotic" medications will cause me to be in more pain because you create more opiate receptors (aka tolerance). It's hard to balance my desire to be high and pain free, I want less pain but goddamit if I'm not a junky at heart. I mean, if my option was to take like a fentanyl patch, it'd be on me in a heartbeat--but bupe is generally used for withdrawal. I have a very low opiate tolerance right now (but high enough not to feel 5mg hydrocodone), since I've been mostly using kratom, which means it should work.

It's beginning to kick in. My head feels heavy, and warm, with my plush blanket I feel completely peaceful. I think I could almost nod off if I let myself. A bit of the patch may have also fell into my mouth and has probably helped. Tingling pleasure rolls up and down my body, like tiny marbles... not as good as that immediate opiate pleasure but better than nothing.

The living room goes out of focus, the light above blurs into a halo, and my mind goes black.



Lucy

Needles and more Needles Dancing Through My Head

I imagine them, short points, long points, orange and blue caps, shoving them into any vein I can find on my left arm or maybe my thumb or maybe my forearm. There are so many possibilities, if only I could find something to IV that would work. Amphetamines and benzos that will never dissolve, better to shove it up my nose or run my head into the wall a few times and pass out. The hardest part of being in a new city is no connects for those hard to find treats. It's for the better when it comes to coke, and dope, but god I would die for some. I've heard that down here the drugs are much better with the close proximity to Mexico. My brain is drooling at the thought of this, longing for a time when the coke man could come any night at any time. All the needles around the apartment, the poppy seeds scattered on all surfaces, used alcohol swabs and q-tips--the place where we felt most comfortable. My mind seems to be waxing poetic, as I have only slept three hours since two nights ago... I fucking hate insomnia.

I didn't take any amphetamines today, so that I can sleep tonight. I long to take my clonazepam and fall deep in sleep, no chance  of awakening until tomorrow morning.

Why does the needle seem more important than what is going into it? I crave to use it, but couldn't care what for.

Rested minds may help me understand,

Lucy

On a roll with adderall!

I've been busy lately with a fucking trek to find a doctor who will help me with my hypersomnia. After multiple tests and visits, having to go to my psychiatrist because the original doctor didn't want to prescribe with the psych meds I'm on, the original prescription being 1600 a month for provigil, I am finally on adderall (40 mg a day of delicious amphetamine). This is not to say that I don't have hypersomnia--on the reg I sleep 16 hours a day. With the medication I am able to stay awake without much of a high, besides being present within my own life as opposed to asleep.

I was hoping for the joy of everyday adderall, as if it would be just like when we'd binge for days on end travelling across the city from borough to borough--dexy's 24 hour runners. I do love amphetamine and the initial rush of that pill. Before my morning dose I am lost in a thick fog, especially in the mornings, when I am unable to perform simple tasks without a great deal of confusion. It seems far less enjoyable than those far away days of reckless, drug-addled abandon. It as if the legality has somehow made the high inert.

The strange part on top of the lack of a high, is that my craving for opiates has sky-rocketed. I'm not seeing my pain doctor until the 22nd when I may be able to receive true opiates--not having to choke down capsule upon capsule of kratom. Every night, I feel compelled to swallow as many as I can, a compulsion that does result in a high and unpleasant herbal burps. My klonopin does help provide a more intense high, although I'd rather save that for panic attack (which feel as though they may be sneaking back). There are some highs and lows to this situation, but overall I feel happy to have such access at my fingertips. I do feel that the adderall kills most of the kratom high, where I cannot access the beautiful opiate euphoria that kratom brings at high doses.

I feel stupid constantly trying to reach back into my brain and pull out that sensation. I'll lay in bed and deeply focus on a point behind my frontal lobes. Maybe if I focus hard enough it'll come back to me. Regardless  I will keep trying because perseverance is a good quality, right?

-Lucy