Morphine Withdrawal

Behind the pharmacy walls Im dying.

I am ready to curl up and die there. Unable to stop the pain raging from my head down to my feet. The doctor wouldn't rx me anything until I saw him this week--2 days after my mirphine rx ran out. A week from my when my last oxy rx should have been refilled. The muscles in my legs contract. My eyes burn. I yawn again and again--I would take death over this feeling. I  forgot my wallet and have nothing to eat.

I feel the bile creeping up my throat.

And ther goes my breakfast.

Please god, kill me now.

Lucy

The Land of Scathing Sun

The asphalt steams my scrubs; my arms feel hot and sticky. Rain in Texas is always dangerous weather, trucks barrel down the freeway spraying water, sedans end up swept into puddles, and I'm stuck on wet cement for the 30 minutes I have away from the pharmacy in the back corner of the store.

A homeless guy presses me for a cigarette--3 times no and he won't listen to me, "I have 2 ciga left and I'm on my break." A lie to protect my only respite from the world.

Back behind the pharmacy counter, I wanted to scream at people to fuck off all morning. We can't see them approach the counter on the other side of the partition. Usually, within 20 seconds or less, we'll call "be there in a minute." Some immediately knock on the counter, scream hello, it makes me want to stab them with my spatula as I count out 120 Metformin 500mg. A Stetson floats above the glass, a disembodied hat. Fucking Texas.

Everyone is here for their speed and opiates--ready to get legally high, with their doctors' nods of approval.

I pop my own, sitting in the thick air of the parking lot. Customers stare at me as the awning drops on me, I pretend not to notice either. It doesn't matter if you don't look.

I gulp down a 10/325 Percocet and 30mg XR adderall. My own legal euphoria. I have a legitimate condition, undifferentiated spondylarthritis and hypersomnia, along with a million other conditions I take 12 pills to keep in check. I'm a walking disease, an invalid.

I need to pick up my handicapped placard. The prescription is waiting for me at my rheumatologist's office. I'll probably pick it up after I see my new pain doctor.

I hate pain doctors. They treat us all like junkies--piss tests every time. The glances of disbelief at your first meeting, as is maybe all the MRIs and years of testing are wrong. The new guy sounds good though, maybe he'll be able to help me with the burning pain in my feet and the tearing sensation in the tendons of my ankles--along with the deep, crushing aching in my spine and knees, my hands as well.

My break is done, my cigarette barely finished. I watch the clouds of smoke trail off. I grind it out with my feet so that annoying homeless guy can't smoke it. Maybe that makes me an asshole. I haven't decided yet.

Anyway. Back to life behind the pharmacy,

Love you all,

Lucy