Girl with the Golden Arm

Overwhelmed; under the freezing air chilling the sweat on my arms and the burning fire under the damp sheets, I can’t sleep. Again trapped in the rhythms of insomnia, wrapped in semiconsciousness. 

I pull myself off the bed, and trudge until folding down onto the sofa. How many time’s have I found myself in this position? Across years and states and continents, full of regret, self-loathing, and unbearable urge to tear out of my skin.

The pills are supposed to last a month. Each month, I plan to control myself. And each month, the bottle is empty within 5 to 6 days. My liver aches from processing a daily overdose of Tylenol.

An unknown number of hours  and 90mg of amphetamine later, daylight has crept up and left us. It’s nighttime and I’m in a friend’s house. At one moment, drinking down champagne, mixing with the stomach acid and pills. In another moment, talking about how I got this scar on my left arm. Even after 14 years, I never expect the grimaces staring back.

We were meant to be dressed as “what would make your 16 year old self proud.” If 16 year old me could witness this: alive (never even overdosed in 14 years), married to a sexy punk guy, still fucked up, and at a party. I’d be pleasantly shocked I think. I spout off the old line that I learned as a teenager “no one experiments with drugs, we’re not fucking scientists.”

 I planned my outfit days before: wearing a Mickey Mouse shirt—he’s high on heroin, needle hanging limply from his arm, a spoon by his feet. It was from Trash and Vaudeville when it was in its original location on St. Marks. It’s the short sleeves that bring me back, as I look over at my arm. Proudly showing it to them all, pointing out I was doing this shit before all those followers of my generation, popping pills with their friends—I found the pills, the needle all by myself. And I knew at that age it was not a truth to be shared freely. That I was a “shande”—a shame, even if my parents didn’t know. But now I can wear it like a badge around them. I tell them that the only person allowed to call me a “junky” is me—recalling the one time someone else bestowed that title upon me while 18 and living in Paris.

The conversation keeps rolling back around. The amphetamine and alcohol are chugging along. I would kill for a line, and I’m tempted to ask someone. Coke would really keep me going. Right now, I’m dragging and don’t want the high to end.

Uppers. What a bad idea. At least with opiates I’m asleep by the time it’s fading out. But right now I’m wide awake, but it’s wearing off fast.

Somehow it’s 2:26am and we’re all needing to leave. Someone in the house has to be at work in 3 hours. R and I speed out in the night. He doesn’t  drink now—the angel to my demon.

We get home, pop another 30mg of amphetamine, and put on Rocknrolla. Then we fuck in as many ways as man knows how. By 5am, the amphetamine begins to wear off but I don’t want it to quit. I want to speed along forever. This is the fucking vicious circle. 

Goddamn I wish I had some coke. Or pills. Or h.

Another 30mg of amphetamine will suffice for now.

But I’m the fucking girl with the golden arm. The only come down I’ll have from this mess is kratom. A fucking lowly high compared to the ones I’ve had, but it’ll have to do for now. I’d tongue fuck the inside of my old pill crusher if I thought I could get more than a false hope out of it. But the plastic in there is barely dusted.

Another 30mg later and I’m once more in love with the night. It’s a velvet blanket that wraps us in its smooth, dark embrace. If only I could steal myself away in it forever.

The pill crusher is lost in the apartment (i do a cursory search). Licking my old 2$ bill, mirror, and razor blade is what I get instead. My tongue goes numb from the birthday gift a friend gave me 4 months ago for my 30th, still enough dust left to do that. She’s given me that same fluffy white gift for the past 2 years. It’s one of the few gifts I’m never disappointed to get again.

But now R is back from smoking his cig. We’ve put on Snatch. He falls back on the bed and I crawl on to him. I run my fingers through his short, bleached hair stamped with leopard spots. We fuck again until we collapse in a sweaty pile of limp limbs. 

The impending hangover is coming over my head—teasing at my temples before tightening the vice around my skull. Only two pills left—at least one needed for the drug test in 2 weeks—so I could take one pill to promote the false hope of a high or swallow 35 grams of kratom and some tizanidine. I’ll go for the latter and save my pills for the drug test. Without them, there won’t be anymore.

Perusing my medical chart online, I read over the diagnosis section. In clear letters it said “opioid use disorder,” neatly in line with my other conditions. Yet they still write me scripts. They barely touch the pain or scratch my itch, but I’m terrified of losing it entirely. Those chalky little fuckers do perpetuate my habit, mixed with kratom, amphetamine, and nicotine. Sometimes, it seems pointless to keep it up, when the kratom gets me more fucked up than they do. But they’re cheaper and I don’t have to gulp down 40 at a time.

I miss the days of Oxymorphone and oxycodone, but I’ll take hydrocodone if I have to. I’ve looked into methadone clinics because I’m so tired of this merry go round. For right now, this is easier. And I know what I am, even if I put up a good front. Now it’s time to slug some of those big capsules down and maybe tumble into sleep.

Your girl with the golden arm,

Lucy