Barbaric Thoughts

The front of my head screams for more, and yet there is nothing to feed it. Morphine might as well be a fucking aspirin--it has no high. It contains nothing.

I'm splayed on the bed, watching the fan spin above me spin in a blur, listening to the newest album by The Libertines (Anthems for Doomed Youth). Time ticks by waiting for the krater to set in--a crap replacement for oxycodone, when 20mg of oxy won't even get me high. At least I'm trying, that's what they always said was the important part.

Like the fan, I'm spiraling out of control with anxiety and pills. I'm far too close to being out with at least 2 weeks before I can even fill a new prescription. Living in the pharmacy, I factor in the number of days in a month, the rules of how soon I can fill, and how the doc will write my script this time--my script, my ticket out of this hell hole of a mind.

I'm far too close to cracking in 2, or 5, or dissolving into a puddle of pure excrement. Back to the old punk ways of showering barely twice a week (not a good look in public). Maybe I can just blame it on my old ways starting to break back in.

I lay my arms out across the bed and close my eyes, as if to summon the days of my youth when I would save those precious few oxys I'd thieved for the end of the week. On Friday nights, as Trainspotting or the Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson played in the distance of my darkened bedroom. My arms across my chest, ready for the grave, nodding in and out of those strange dreams. Sometimes, I'm amazed at my self control to save those pills for the end of the week, when now I can't keep myself from my fingers reaching back into the bottle for double the pills I'm prescribed.

40mg of oxycocdone/apap and 30mg of morphine er a day should suffice for one human being, but there's no way to stop myself from crawling back into that amber vial. I hand them off to R to hold for me, but he's far too nice to stop me when I request another, and another. He can't help it, he loves me, wants me happy. And sometimes, I equate happiness with being high. Depression has swept back over me like the waves on Long Beach Island, where the Atlantic would come crashing down on my head once more--suddenly gulping sea water and tumbling in the surf.

Drugs surround my every waking moment, from work to home to sleep, dreaming of aisles, shelves full of medicine for those broken minds, bodies, and bones.

Squirming in my Skin

It is unending... a tape worm that never gets enough and it's eating through my brain. I took the 3.5 oxys after work plus now my nightly morphine, a tizanidine, and an adderall xr since Rob took one a while ago before going to class at 7:30. I figure an rx speedball is always a good night. Perhaps I'll be entertained for long enough to keep my mind off of how low my drug supply is becoming.

I have 7 days to get to my doctor appointment, which means I have only 2 oxys a day if I want to have some each day.... technically less than that even. That's half the amount I should have, minus the couple of days from then until when my fill date "should" be. However, he wrote it last time 2 days before I filled it last, and i'm hoping that means he'll let me fill it right away. He may be slightly off from his family emergency that totally fucked up my medication schedule because he wasn't in his office and no one would tell me what was going on. I ended up getting my oxys early, I filled my morphine on time, and now I'm wondering how this will all play out.

There is a special kind of hate that blossoms when you realize your past actions are constantly undermining your future comfort you can't help but hate it. I have to take a xanax, only 0.5mg, although I'm not such a big fan of them. I'm squirming in my skin and ready to run out of the room, under the Texas moon, and scream as loud as possible until all this frustration that's built up subsides.

We have no money, running out of my meds, constant stress stress stress, and I have to hold it together for R. He's an adult, and he handles a great deal of our responsibilities, but I always have to deal with the real tough shit: insurance, bonds for his school, getting his fafsa taken care of, getting our SNAP benefits together, etc.. It becomes tiring to feel like both a wife and a caregiver (not a mom). I want him to do some shit on his own, but his anxiety builds to the point where he is stammering and unable to even move let alone work on anything complicated.

I love him and I know his anxiety/mental problems are not his fault--if he could do anything, it would be to be mentally healthy.

.........

1 day until the doctor. Tonight we're off to see the Toasters, and my excitement is mixed with pain.

The soles of my feet burn and the bones running up my legs ache without end. I woke up like this and I will go to sleep like this. I am left with 1 oxy, my nightly morphine, and maybe some tea--if it's necessary to keep me on my feet for the show.

This fucking body is only 25 but 25 more years stuck here seems interminable. The only positive are the drugs--amphetamines in the morning to wake up, and morphine to keep my pain reduced, and oxycodone to really knock me and the pain out.

The world is fucked up, it's not related to fairness, but sometimes I wish that it was a little less arbitrary.

I'm rambling now. the pain is distracting pushing every thought out.

I'll be back later on.

I love you all,
Lucy

P.S. If you ever have a question or anything, feel free to comment or follow me on twitter. I'm here, just quiet sometimes.

Speedballing Behind the Pharmacy Counter

I haven't posted in such a long time because of all the crazy shit going on... I'll make a list of what's changed for the most part:
- We now live in downtown Austin
- We got engaged, and legally married
- Our "real" wedding is in about a month
- I'm still working at the pharmacy and training for my exam
- Rob is being brutalized by his job, but pushing himself through to support us (that's not really new...)

....otherwise life is basically the same

It's been rather strange working in the pharmacy lately--stranger than usual that is. There's been such a large talk about addiction that my lead pharmacist and I have even discussed it a few times...which is, as you might imagine, incredibly awkward for me (luckily she can't read minds or I wouldn't have a job or my meds filled there anymore).

This past week with the death of Prince, she was saying how we (people in the pharmacy) are on the frontline to help people by not filling their prescriptions. As long as you only go to the same doctor (dirty or not), and go to the same pharmacies, no one would every suspect you had a problem--unless you come in high as balls and slurring your words or get a million downer RXs. It is true that we can see who they have been getting scripts from and if it's multiple doctors--as well as catching forged rxs.

We recently caught a woman trying to phone in 120 soma for a 25 day supply--as well as some phentermine, I guess to try and wake her up from her coma. It was apparent to me that it was a fake, not only because that sounds like a recreation of Brace New World, it was supposedly sent from someone at a doctor's office that I use. She also called in some phentermine, to help awaken her from her coma. Now, this rx was called in at 7:30, but that place barely does anything during the time they are open, so there is no way that was happening (I'm pretty sure emergency soma and phentermine doesn't exist...). Of course, the next day once we called in to the office, the doctor and DEA# were real, but they no longer worked there. I'm sure the night before when she came in to pick it up, and my pharmacist told her we couldn't dispense it because we spoke to the doctor that she was shitting her pants (figuratively). The obese woman with the fake soma RX never reappeared to find out what happened, but I wish I knew...

I was thinking about it the other day and I realized that my doctors are currently prescribing me a pharmaceutical speedball: morphine er and amphetamine er on a daily basis. I take them together in the morning, with oxy at night (sometimes in the day) to sate my cravings for the intense high I need to keep going. I don't know why it took me so long to make this connection, but I've been on this for almost a year without any thought to it.

Right now I'm laying on the suede futon under the afternoon sun flowing through our den. My mind is swimming with a content pleasure that's numbed the majority of the pain in my twisted ankle and aching back. My lower back is pulsing with some pain reminiscent of pulling the tendons or muscles around my spine... who know what I did to fuck up my back and ankle this time. Recently, my ankle has been killing me the past few days. It's snug in an ACE bandage to apply pressure and keep it in place, which keeps most of the pain at bay.

I was suddenly hit with pain running down the bone of my left hip. This is bone and neuropathy pain is the newest addition to my host of problems. Every part of my body is breaking down, powered by chemicals taken every day or injected once a week, yet still constantly in pain. I wish I was naive enough to believe there was enough medicine in the world to cut off all my pain, without ending in an overdose. Sadly, I'm aware my situation with pain is futile, maybe that's what fuels me to constantly seek out my high in the pills they give me. I get 4 10-325mg oxy everyday, along with my 2 morphine er, to help me survive the day without jumping into the abyss of suicide.

I've been able to keep working with the help of the drugs. With the opiates constantly coursing through my veins, the pain I feel I can push down to at least make it through the day as I'm standing on my feet through out the day.

The abyss swallowed me up a few minutes ago, and I came back just now. My mind was divided, part lying right below the surface of consciousness, and the rest fallen deep into a hole of strange vivid dreams or into an empty void.

On that note, I'm going to get back to enjoying my afternoon. I will come back and write more in the next few days, as there are many stories I've accrued over the past few months that I need to share. We'll see each other again soon.

Love,
Lucy

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

Selling drugs (legally)

Floating up above the sofa, perhaps I've gone past the atmosphere. Who knows or cares. I have work in two hours, but I'm getting a ride so I'm not worried. Nothing could worry me. I should take some more speed before i leave. I took my 3 20mg adderall 2 hours ago, but it can't keep up with hydrocodone. I'm going to talk to my doctor about taking something without acetaminophen. 1300 mg of tylenol a day stresses your liver. But it don't stress me too much. The hydrocodone isn't working for my pain unless I take them at the same time. I cant wait to see pain management on March 30th and ask. I'm gonna call tomorrow and ask about taking two at a time to help cover all my pain.

My arms are so heavy and tired. Almost too tired to hold this tablet. The beige room with the gray sky shining in behind the tree seems to blanket me as I keep sinking in. I'm trying to float on the surface, so I won't nod out even as it beckons me.

I have begun a job as a pharmacy tech in training. I love it. I want to be a pharmacist. I want to know everything about these chemicals that change us so completely. They keep us well, or at least help us believe we are. I am not going to fuck this up. I am going to work hard to keep on the straight and narrow. I only take what I'm prescribed now, and I feel at least somewhat in control. R holds on to the pills for the future week. He is the best. He takes care of me so well. I am lucky to have him here.

I used up my script early last week. Lope (loperamide--the opiate Imodium) is what kept me well. Thank dog for that. I was still uncomfortable and sick, but at least I could go to orientation and training. I went to my pharmacy and explained that the directions had changed, from 3 to 4 pills a day. They filled it 4 days early. I love the tech who knows me, he is so helpful.

I'm going to let the couch swallow me now, until my face is the only part of me floating on the top. A nap for an hour couldn't hurt.

I love you all,
Lucy

Comfortably Fucked Up

1pm: Today I can't seem to get the temperature of the shower water right. It vascilates between scalding and tepid, with every turn of the nob. Closing my eyes cool water washes over me, I can't help but stare at the basin floor as a possible resting spot. It is not uncommon for me to slowly lower myself on to the cool floor of the shower, a controlled descent. My hands push the shampoo and oil and dirt out of my hair, so that I can once again open my eyes without soap rushing into them. I turn around slowly, bracing myself on the white tiled walls, and stare at the wall beneath the shower head. It begins to morph, becoming convex at the sides, while the other tiles remain flat, unchanging. My gaze is trapped by those pesky afternoon withdrawal hallucinations. I cross my arms under my bust and watch as the water pools in the creases of my arms until rolling down to hit the floor. It might have been hours that I spent standing in the shower, it might not have been me at all. Now clotheth damp hair, I'm still waiting for the hydros to kick in and my stomach to stop rolling.

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8:30pm: My fingers keep tickling the back of my throat until my stomach finally takes the hint. I repeat until my stomach pain finally subsides. I shouldn't have eaten a large blizzard and then dinner. The thought of this makes me feel nauseous again. Purging shouldn't be the answer to this, but I do use purging when either I've drank too much beer or my stomach is rocked out from eating too much. I probably haven't done it in a year or something, at least it's not a usual occurrence in my life. I guess I need to prove to all of you that I  don't have an eating disorder, or something which  is why I'm saying all of this.

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2/26
7:36pm: Depression. Crushing despair, boredom, self-hatred blankets me until I feel it choking around my neck. I want to break this, I just want all of these feelings to disintegrate. Apathy would feel better than this. Although I've accepted a job, my conscience smothers me with guilt because I'm not doing anything. I am a lump on the sofa.

To me, life has no intrinsic meaning. We are all parts of the natural world, with a finite life span, until we decompose and our elemental parts become new natural forms. The only goal I have for life is to be happy. It's a big part of why I use. If life has no greater purpose than for our own enjoyment of the experience, why not feel as good as you can?

No matter my logical conclusions, suicide clouds my mind. I don't really want to do it, I love my family and  R and all of my friends. I feel so low right now. I'm such fucking scum. A junky piece of shit. I guess at least I'm comfortable like this. Comfortably fucked up.