The holes inside my septum hum as I inhale, pulling powder into one as pressure is released through the other. I'm sitting cross legged on the right hand side of the bed next to my night stand, R is propped up on the other side. His glazed eyes (an angry red from smoking pot) look heavy as he stares at his phone.
"Do you have Narcan?"
The question makes anger boil in my guts. I'm silent, slack-jawed. Unable to answer, even though it's a simple word:
"Yes."
The word slips out, followed by, "But, I don't know why you're worried about that! I'm fine. It's just my muscle relaxer; it makes me really sleepy. I'm not going to fall out!" Inflecting each syllable with growing annoyance. "Anyway, it's in a pink pouch in one of the plastic drawers. There are 2 vials and a syringe."
"You looked really fucked up out there. I was worried... thought you could be close to overdosing."
"I'm fine. Look at me! I'm fine."
I leave him and the room in a cloud of disgust.
Cigarettes in my left hand, computer in the other, I sit back outside. My aqua Sk8hi Vans are pressed against the metal railing of the apartment walkway, lifting my chair onto its back legs. Everyone treats it like their balcony, until someone walks by lugging laundry or walking their dogs. The bright green foliage of the trees surrounding the courtyard below provide a small amount of privacy.
I suck on a cigarette and start writing. Well, I had intended to be writing but I end up lost in the New York Times (which is typical).
My eyes keep lolling closed, only to be snapped open again as the chair begins to waver.
The old adage "do what you love" keeps coming to mind. And why not? What's the harm in enjoying some peace and quiet from my own thoughts, the constant physical agony that consumes my consciousness? I'm not a scientist. I've never experimented with drugs--I know what they are going to do. THAT'S WHY I TAKE THEM. Everyday I work my 8 hours and then I come home to my real life. I fill other people's addictions and then feed my own in the privacy of our bedroom. I don't steal. I don't cheat. I simply luxuriate in my own medication. Why fight the most basic of all human desire--a life free from pain? Or, in some cases, a life full of pleasure?
Every month, I tell myself this one will be different. I won't take more pills per day than I'm supposed to. And every month, by the second week, I've come to realize I've fucked up royally. That the bottle full of pills was deceptive and the bottom of that amber vial would soon be all I could see. In that sense I do fight myself, but not to
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I found this scribbled in a memo pad I was using in 2015/16. It was bookended by the scores of Scrabble games between R and I. The reminder is clear: some parts of my life will never change. And maybe who I truly am, that clandestine person lurking behind the smile I flash at the world, will never change either.
"A deep, pulsing, heavy sleep falls over me. Life on opiates is like living underwater--muffled, warm, slipping from my fingertips. The biggest downside is how my memory slips away along with the pain."
