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