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