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

Secret Pills and Where to Find Them

There have been a handful of times I've felt the itch at work. Unlike in the bathrooms of anonymous relatives and acquaintances, I have to restrain my fingers from scurrying off with them carefully stashed in my day planner or pants pocket. The desire has never overcome my fear of being caught, the knowledge that the fleeting high does not trump the possible punishment--a fact that always eludes me in my private life. Behind the counter, it's always another story.

Pouring out the 60 gram vial, I laid all the tablets and capsules on the counter. A cocktail of medications to heal ailments from the ache in your temples to the fungus on your feet. They had dropped or met some other unsanitary end before being put aside for destruction. Delicately placing each pill in its own plasticine bag, I began the arduous task of identify each of them. 200 pills to study and search for in the drug identifier. Most were mundane, synthroid, dicyclomine, metformin, I plodded along printing labels and sticking them on bags. I was bored with the whole task, numbed and slightly annoyed the store had let so many pile up. It must've taken years of laziness to drop this many pills on the ground and not identify a single one.

Two gray tablets, smooth, perfectly round, with a score on one side, and the number 20 embossed on the other. I typed it up, and felt a sizzle shoot through my spine when the results appeared. It was oxycodone 20mg, in my hand, and I was the sole purveyor of this knowledge. No one in the rest of the pharmacy had any idea of my discovery. I could've simply slid them into my calendar without a second thought and carried them out with me. My ears flushed as I dreamt of the euphoria I would receive for my slight indiscretion. Then, I pushed it out of my mind, deciding to come back to the idea.

I continued to search up more pills, slap labels on them; rinse and repeat. Once more I got a chill, as I found another oxycodone in my pile of goodies. The devil standing to my right whispered that I could easily get away with this. Off in the corner, labeling and bagging hundreds of drugs for destruction, as everyone else stayed immersed in the prescriptions piling up around them and the incessant ring of the phones.

After the oxycodone, I found an adderall. This was more of a shock than a joy. I had no desire to take it, but was simply startled at the quantity of schedule II drugs they had strewn about the floor.

The risk felt far too great, if I were to be caught. Perhaps I could lie and tell them it had ended up under my notebook, and I hadn't noticed. Not like anyone was going to flip through the pages.

I shoved all my desires down and drowned them out with the likely hood of arrest, or at least termination. Without thinking for too much longer, I printed out their labels, slapped them on the little clear bags, and handed them over to the pharmacist. He cocked an eyebrow in surprise at my finds, or maybe it was my honesty. Either way, it still leaves my heart heavy to imagine those drugs burned up and destroyed, so that no one would enjoy them. A lifetime of nights spent high going up in flames.

Keep an eye on your demons and good luck.

Love you,
Lucy

Another Unforced Error

As per usual, an unforced error on my part has sent me scrambling to find a new doctor... I fucked up, coming up positive months ago for morphine in my urine screen due to some poppy seed tea. Then, apparently, I also hadn't come up positive for oxycodone in my urine... whoops. That's because I was taking it before I got close to my testing dates. Although, I'm shocked that it wouldn't be in there at all, given that I've been on these meds for years and even a couple days without it shouldn't remove it entirely from my system.

That hot flush smacked me, as I felt all the blood enter my face. Luckily, R had driven me and was in the room when the conversation occurred. Imagine the horror of having to explain that whole experience to my parents. I can't even process that thought.

I've decided to call my doctor before him, who kicked me out because I came up positive for coke twice. However, he told me that it was just a "trial separation," and I could come back if I didn't like my new doctor. That's one way of putting it.

He's the best doctor I've had since I moved out here, and would really prefer to go back to seeing him. I'm nervous about calling him tomorrow and asking to come back. The concern that he'll tell me no is there--it is an overwhelming fear I have. The anxiety I feel about calling is nothing compared to what I feel about getting off opioids. The pain and withdrawal looms over me, as I know that, unless I call or find a new doctor, that'll be my fate.

---

4 days later and I still haven't called. Perhaps I'm simply putting off the inevitable or facing the true dire situation I've set up.

To Taper or not to Taper

Another doctor down. An unforced error on my part, once again means I'm out of a pain management office. And with it a reliable source of oxy and oxymorphone.

Fuck. Once again, the high I'm chasing landed me in a hole. A deep, dark hole, that I can't climb out of without a lot of excuses to more people than I'd like.

At first, I felt good about tapering. Maybe, this had all happened for the best, and being free of opioids would be a whole new start. However, the 6 oxys I took after picking up my new taper script, made me realize one thing: I refuse to forgo my daily dose of pleasure. Fuck, I'd rather make up a million excuses and sense their side-eyed stares.

What's the point of living without a little bit of pleasure sprinkled on top?

Pull All the Triggers

It's comical how easily, when in a heightened state, I can be triggered into diving into a bottle of pills or snorting them all up my nose. Not enough doses until my appointment, but I don't care. Fuck it, right?

RIGHT?

If I could mooch off my friends, find someone to help me cop, I would... any trace amount of H gets out of your system within 24 hours. Faster than any other opioid I know of, only followed by hydrocodone.

I took 2 sonata to help me sleep. Take the edge off my running nose, clenching fist, that sinking feeling in my stomach. Uncontrollable thoughts circle every movement. It all points to oblivion. I don't have anyone to talk about it with... all alone with these thoughts. The overwhelming current that pulls me back in.

All triggered by a fucking TV show.

I keep yawning out here, between typing and suck on this cigarette. The cold breeze keeps running across my feet. Shivers that want to run through my body,but I hold them back. Stop them up until my foot is tapping and my heart is racing and all I want is more more more more. Please god. Just enough to get me through until Thursday. To keep me high until then.

They post up all this "opioid hysteria" on TV. But is it really to make us feel better? Like we're not so alone. It could only be for those concerned families, so worried about their little Danny's and Susie's pill or H problem.

But for Lucy and Danny and Susie, all we get is a reminder of who we are. Our reflection played out by actors shivering and sniveling, but don't know what the fuck they're talking about.

Please let me sleep, dream of needles and powders and pills, and I'll be good tomorrow.

I promise. Tomorrow.

Tapering into Oblivion

Every rib hurts. The tips of my shoulder blades. The dip in my back. Tender to the touch, as if I've become a giant bruise. Even my tits hurt. Down to 5mg of Oxymorphone er twice a day and it's pushed me into a spiral of excruciating pain.

I'm avoiding taking my oxycodone... as per usual, the beginning of the month, I dove into the bottle freely. Now, I've trapped myself into only being able to take 2 pills a day to last me to my appointment in 10 days. Even then, I'll still be without pills for 2 days. I have plenty of oxymorphone because I couldn't find my dosage at any stores near me. That meant I didn't fill my prescription for another 3 days after my appointment, leaving me with a couple days surplus until I see the doctor again.

At least it's Saturday. The apartment is warm and comforting, bathed in the low lights from our many lamps. The building was built in the 70s, when it was common not to have overhead lights built in. Instead, there are outlets across the walls attached to the light switch. I prefer my lamps, the soft glow spreads across the apartment, carrying a homey sense.

I can't lie down. Whenever my body touches any surface, the pressure hits me as if I'm pushing on a deep bruise.

------------


Only 4 days until my appointment. 3 really, if you don't count the day of. I'm sated.

Our friends, suddenly pulling out a tiny bag of coke from an inner pocket, was so easily tempting. Crisper and sweeter than the juiciest apple, but I resisted. Instead, I blew another oxymorphone on top of the one I had snorted hours earlier.

Now, mixed with the tequila, vodka, and beer, I'm high enough not to care. They left a few minutes ago, and I'm now in that sweet spot of alcohol and opioids. Whatever powder has dripped down the back of my throat, has dissolved into oblivion. The opioid receptors running along my spinal column, brain stem, and appendage are filled.

I mean, I might have to get up in 5 hours in order to do some early voting. But, fuck it.

The present must be enjoyed--first and foremost. The nauseating hangover that will hit soon enough is a distant problem. Unlike the drug test which I will pass with flying colors, having escaped the dangers of coming up positive for cocaine.

A doctor has confronted me with that once. Technically, it happened on 2 drug tests in a row. The first one he did not tell me about,  only bringing it up after the second positive (one month later). In my shock and horror, I told the weak lie that I must've been drugged by friends--perhaps due to some mixed into the punch? As if I hadn't put the dollar bill up my own nose, taking that line swiftly, with a deftness practiced from years of pulling powder..

Yes, I know the danger of mixing opioids and alcohol.

The real question is: do I believe this will kill me (like it has so many others)?

The simple answer is, obviously, no. Everyday, for the thousands of days I've done this, I bet that my brain's desire to breath is stronger than the pull of the drugs to cease my chest from expanding.

Even now, my muscles are tense in my legs--soon I will take a tizanidine to release them from their tense state.

The nausea is just an annoyance.

Like the room spinning and my head pounding.

But, I didn't do any of the coke they offered me. I controlled myself, seeing the consequences clearly before me.

Thank god. For once I was strong enough to see the future consequences, and not risk coming up positive--dooming me to painful withdrawals. Even if I snort my oxymorphone and mix it in a belly full of liquor, at least I didn't put that coke up my nose.

As long as I wake up in the morning, it'll be evidence that I've matured enough to see the obvious dangers in my actions.

But damn: a bump of that coke would've been so right.

However, now it's time to sleep.

Love you all,
Lucy

High as I Am

I had my pain management appointment the other day. It took forever for the PA to come in--never a good sign. She immediately asked me what was wrong, how I was doing etc.., and then without much of a preface she said: "Your last drug test came up positive for morphine. Do you know why that might be?"

I could feel my heart racing. That stupid shitty poppy seed tea could be the only explanation. It didn't even get me high, leaving my legs and arms feeling like they had become thick pudding. I wanted to die right there. Slip into the floor and disappear.

"That doesn't make any sense. It shouldn't be there. I don't understand."

"I agree, it shouldn't be there." She smiled at her computer screen, as she quickly typed.

"The only thing I could think of is eating some poppy seeds muffins maybe. I do eat a lot of pastries..."

"That would come up with a metabolite for cocaine."

No. No it couldn't. Not unless you're making some new type of cocaine that I've never tried. Where the fuck are you getting your poppy seeds from, bitch? Because I know that the morphine came from poppy seed tea... not that I'd tell you that...

"I don't know then, I'm really confused."

"Well, we're going to drug test you again today. If it comes up positive or there are other anomalies, we won't be able to prescribe you anymore opioid medications."

"I understand that completely." Calm down. Steady yourself. Do not seem to buck at the prospect of paying another $140 fucking dollars for this test. Because you know you don't have the money for it, but the pills are far more important than money. Without them, you might as well lie down and plan to die.

"When do you want to do more injections?"

"I'm working down my deductible. The last ones were over $1000, so I want to wait until it'll be a little less expensive."

"I can understand that." She chuckled. "Anything else I can do for you today?"

"No, the taper is kinda hard, I'm definitely in a bit more pain than before. But I'm okay overall."

"Alright sweety," I'm not your sweety "I'll see you in 4 weeks then! Take care."

"Thanks! See you then."

I walked out and grabbed a paper bag with my name on it. The plastic cup was inside. Luckily, my bladder was so full I pissed until it started to dribble down the sides. It was nice, clear yellow--obviously I've been keeping hydrated.

I appreciate that the office gives you a paper bag to put your "specimen" in, as opposed to walking around with a lost look on my face, a cup of hot urine in hand.


To find the new dosage of my oxymorphone er, I had to drive around to a pharmacy on the north side of town. I'm down to 5mg twice a day. 50% tapered down now in a month. Tiny, round, lilac tablets all waiting to be swallowed or railed.

The other night realize now that I have no idea what the goal is at the end of this. Is it to take me off long acting opioids for good and rely solely on my oxycodone for breakthrough pain? Or is this simply meant to keep me line with the CDC guidelines? If it's the latter, then we won't need to taper down anymore--my meds are equivalent to the 90 MME (morphine milligram equivalent) which they recommend.

This whole taper has made me realize that I don't want to go off opioids. In fact, I don't know what I'd do without them. Who would I be without my chemical compatriots? What would I use as my respite from the day's many let downs?

I'm high as I type this, head heavy with the 5mg oxymorphone I shoved up my nose, and the 20mg of oxycodone I washed down with Mountain Dew right as I got in the car after work. I'm scared about what it would mean to suddenly be yanked off my drugs of choice. The withdrawal would be unbearable and scares me almost as much as the thought of sobriety. There's not enough loperamide in this world that could keep me well. My tolerance is so high that even when I tried heroin I found it to be shitty compared to my pills.

For a moment, I close my eyes and felt the world sway around me. It's amazing how much euphoria can flow through the body all at once. It swells with each drag on my cigarette. The  menthol resonates on the back of my tongue. Sugar from the gummy bears I've been eating mixes with it to create a foul chemical taste. But in my current state I barely care.

If only this state could be reached without the use of chemicals, I'd never touch a pill again. But, without them, I have no idea how to get to this place of infinite peace. That glowing pleasure that ricochets from my skull to my crotch, down my legs, and back up again. Cycling through my body in an infinite loop of joy.

I can only hope that, if you're reading this, you're (as) high (as I am right now).