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