Out of the Pharmacy and into the Fire

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



---------

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."

Shuffle, sniff, shuffle, sniff.

Monday:

I called out today from work. Probably more nerves than anything else, although I have been coughing up thick gunk since last night. Now I'm lounging in the thick Texas heat--cut through by a warm breeze. A layer of sweat licks my brows as I'm writing this.

I shouldn't be smoking, but it's not as dangerous as my other vice.

The pills I'd doled out to last me until my appointment Wednesday (it's Monday today) have been squandered besides the 3/4 of a crushed up one. The line cut on my favorite plate, with the picture of a New York State prescription pad printed on it. The other 1/4 in my pill box, along with another one that's split in 2. That's supposed to last me until I get there at 8am in 2 days. I'll get through it. A few handfuls of loperamide (Imodium) will make it last.

There's a heavy feeling on my back. I'm not high but almost content. I will probably go back and sniff another small line to placate my unending desire.

I start at a new pharmacy tomorrow. It's in the same chain as the one I was working at, which was unceremoniously shut down a week ago. We only had 1 month's notice from the landlord. This meant a desperate scramble to prepare to leave and hundreds of confused/terrified customers.

Inside our apartment smells like rotting garbage from a sink full of dirty dishes. I can't seem to bring myself to wash them, all the while knowing I have to.

I'm trying to spend my day writing; I have to do something worthwhile since I didn't go to work today. Thick mucous bubbles up in my lungs. I cough up a small amount of sticky green crud on to my right hand as I type. As I wipe it onto my sleeve, I find a larger bolus of phlegm on the keyboard. It's the size of a large marble. (The past 5 minutes have been utterly disgusting, but on the junky scale probably only rate a 2 out of 10.)

This morning's pill barely covered up my sickness. The sign that my tolerance has reached an unhealthy level. I worry that the half a pill I have for tomorrow will barely cover me for my 8 hour shift. I plan to take 7-10 loperamide caplets (each at 2mg a pop, that number should do the trick). It'll keep me well enough to get through it... even if I'm in pain, at least I won't be in withdrawal.

Withdrawal is a powerful specter that clouds any junky's judgement. At a certain point, the high becomes second to staying well. After I took my pill for this morning, a dose that should've kept me well--I felt the sweating begin. Every muscle in my legs and back cramped up, as my stomach fell through my asshole. I had to take another pill... and then I had to take some of tomorrow's doses. I had to squander my insurance for the future in order to survive the next moment today. It's a constant cycle of need, want, and fear. But mixed in with that is the glorious high. Eye-shutting, mouth-gaping, spine-shivering euphoria is what drives us on. Then those tense moments as the sickness hangs over our heads, that is what drives us back. Every morning and every night I'm consumed with the knowledge that without my doses I'll be on the toilet, doubled over and crying in pain. Not the worst pain I've experienced, but I'd gladly trade sticking needles between my vertebrae to that.

When I was younger, off my head on drugs, with a baby habit, sickness barely factored into my calculations. Now it runs below the surface of my days, a barely audible hum in the background.

.......

#junxlife

Sunday:

The doctor wrote my oxymorphone script incorrectly. We had to go back and turn in the old one, written for a dosage that doesn't exist with instructions that are totally different from before, then pick up the correct one. But by that point on Wednesday, R had been puking and was still nauseous. Although I had the oxycodone RX filled and ready for me to dive into, the long acting oxymorphone that keeps me standing

Plunged Deep and Drained Dry

Bring yourself back to the last time a shiver of fear shot up your spine and drew the color from your cheeks... Take a deep breath...

I'm plunged into that state of horror once more. Dr. S sat across from me, papers in hand. His light blue scrubs flanked by his white coat, with its ornately tied silk knots in place of buttons. But he never used them, letting it hang open by his sides.

His boyish good looks haven't faded, although he is steadily approaching 50. Above azure eyes, his gray hair was meticulously spiked up and glistened with styling gel. Every aspect of his appearance carefully considered, which reflected in his practice. The waiting room was decorated with dark woods and rich leathers. Completed by a set of lamps held up on stands by a series of pulleys and counter-weights. He had picked out each piece personally.

The sigh slipped past his lips.

"So we need to talk..."

"Okay..." I'm sure it came out as more of a question than a response. I thought maybe my insurance was not covering the knee injections I came in to receive.

A blonde nurse was behind him on the rolling-stool, a tablet resting on the exam table in front of her. She's always been sweet and friendly, but she seemed distant. Her eyes never moving from the screen.

"You've come up positive for a metabolite of cocaine for the past 2 months in a row." He flipped to the page, pointing to the red letters with the name of the metabolite and quantity. But I was no longer present. He might as well never have shown me them. He could've been offering me lines of coke at that moment, and I wouldn't have noticed.

The junky part of my brain began to click-on, preparing to explain away. deny deny deny.

"I don't understand..."

"It means that I can't keep you as a patient--for my safety and for yours."

"I understand. I can't believe it, but I understand. I know." My mouth was groping for the words to explain it away. To wake me up from this nightmare.

"It would've been right before thanksgiving and right before Christmas. Think back then, where you were, what you were doing, who you were with."

"I mean, we went to some parties. But, I can't believe that people would do that to us. I mean, I had some punch and shit, but I just don't understand."

"If you didn't do it voluntarily then that's the scariest story I've heard." He could've been sarcastic but he was genuine. I could tell he believed me, or at least didn't want to confront me with the implausibility of this scenario. "You need to be really careful about who you're hanging out with, they don't sound like they have your best interest at heart."

"No. They definitely don't. I'm just shocked and upset they would do this to me, to put me in danger. I'm shocked." Deny, repeat, deny, repeat. Say the words enough times and they'll become true.

-----

But images from that night in December kept flickering into view.

My friends huddled outside my apartment at midnight. R was inside along with a few other people. Our "punk parents" were inside, and I didn't want them to see what I was about to do.

My eyes followed every movement of the bag of coke in W's left hand, and his house key in the right.  Scooping up some and snorting hard.

And then came the words that would seal my fate:

"Can I have a bump?"

"Of course! It's your party!" He passed it to me.

I dug into the bottom of the bag. White crystals of coke glistened on the gold grooves of the key.

It was a Friday, my next doctor appointment wasn't for 4 days. 2 bumps wouldn't show up. Abstaining would've been rude anyway. Right?

As I inhaled, I felt the air whistle into my right nostril, through the growing hole in my septum, and into my left nostril.

That hole grows larger with each year. The damage of a decade spent chasing down the next high.

The party continued on, and besides a friend we had to kick out, it was a great night.

But when had I done cocaine in November? It gnawed at me.

I rarely did coke; I can count on 1 hand the number of times I've done it in the past 12 months.

How could I have forgotten about it? When had we even hung out with people other than my family around Thanksgiving?

Our friends know not to offer us coke. Well, at least not to R. But even with me, and their knowledge of my history, they tip-toe around the issue. Only offering it when I would inquire. They respect and support us, knowing about the struggle we had getting rid of our coke habits.

-----

"You're young, I get it. A little won't kill you." Quickly following it with, "But it's still not good for you or your heart. It's not like the guy I once had, I was like 'really man? you are too old to still be doing this kind of stuff. It's so bad for your heart." I imagined the man, sitting in the same seat as me, convulsing with the same fear. "I've been told before by people, 'yeah, I did do it,' or 'you put it in there!'"

I chuckled, "No, I understand. I know you didn't do that. I just can't believe that this happened. Can you give me some names of doctors you'd recommend?"

"Sure. Shoot me an email with your insurance, and we can send you a list. And if it doesn't work out, you can come back in a few months. Think of this as a trial separation." A comforting smile spread across his face. The thought of coming back gave me a slight glimmer of hope. He is the best doctor I've seen for pain management so far; treating me like a person, not a patient.

"Great, thank you so much. I'm so sorry that this happened. You're the best doctor I've seen. I'm just so heartbroken." Tears welled up in my eyes, but didn't fall.

"If it doesn't work out, give me a call in a few months." He smiled once more as he stood up. "Take care of yourself, and be careful about the people you're hanging around with."

"Thanks, Dr. S." I followed him into the hallway. My eyes were locked on the teal carpeting while I walked past the nurses and their animated conversations. I wondered what they would say about me to one another. If they'd laugh at the implausibility of my story, or my shitty lies.

R and I walked into the parking garage. I recounted what had happened as the tears finally flooded my cheeks, along with the words, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I can't believe I did this." His embrace, the words of comfort, none of them could mend my own self-loathing.

Despair loomed over  and then consumed me.

"I wish I could kill myself. I deserve to die. I'm such a moron. I'm so sorry."

Every sentence was punctuated with apologies. I could feel the weight of my actions crashing over me. I let myself succumb to the embarrassment and hatred I felt. A few hours of pleasure had cost me access to the medication that I need in order to function and keep pain from taking over my life.

The prospect of withdrawing, unless I found a new doctor in 2 weeks, created a sense of urgency underneath the despair. My energy had been eaten away by the appointment. I cringed at the idea of having to start all over with another doctor. And I worried that, like Dr. S, he wouldn't give me prescriptions at my first visit.

If that's the case, I'm staring down withdrawing from a 20mg of oxymorphone er and 10mg of oxycodone a day habit. (I ended up using up a bunch of my oxy early, so I've been rationing myself to 1 pill a day.)

And that would be starting on Tuesday.

At least if it was a Friday, I could spend my weekend curled up on the bathroom floor. Instead, I'll be behind the pharmacy counter: slinging pills to all the customers and junkies who need them to keep one foot in front of the other, day after day.

This is the life I chose...not my illness, but the new disease it has spawned. At the very least, it never gets boring.

Leave me some words of encouragement in the comments, I really need them right now!

Love you,
Lucy

Shuddering and shivering

The muscles in my abdomen shudder. Vibrating through my legs and out my arms. All my muscles are tense. My whole body lets out a muffled scream for its next dose.

I yawn until the skin around my mouth can stretch no further. My mind has only one concern—the oxymorphone I’ll soon be snorting. The oxycodone, I already popped to kick in.

Pills test my patience as I wait for them to dissolve and swarm the blood brain barrier. Until they spill over and spread shivers through my spinal chord and the rest of my nervous system.

My stomach has been empty all day. Powered on by my morning coffee and the handful of pills I take. I’m basically a walking talking pharmacy. Swallowing pills for depression, ADHD, arthritis, inflammation, asthma, anxiety, and, of course, pain.

The same tablets and capsules I spill across my tray all day, count by 5s, and pour into bottles. To heal their mental and physical defects or deficiencies or at least to mask them.

The oxycodone kicks in a few stops from home. A thick layer of sweet pleasure warms my back. Each muscle has relaxed, as if my whole body is breathing a sigh of relief.

We’ll only 1 more day then I see my doctor on Wednesday. I can make it through. I know I can.

That Junky 6th Sense

It’s a phenomenon I experience a few times a week. I’m not sure if it started before or after I started using—now almost a decade ago. An immediate realization that the person in front of my face is a mirror. Their addiction pulsing a silent signal that I instantly receive.

Whenever it’s confirmed,  a bit of joy courses through me. I’ve found one of my own. Sometimes there’s a bit of loathing as well. A mirror image of my own self loathing?

I rest on my arms, palms on the counter. Old scar on my inner arm—a mess of twisted flesh the color of buttermilk—a secret badge of honor. Only for them to see.

The fire trucks are wailing outside the window. Flying down Manor to a distant emergency. Their lights flicker on the blinds before stopping, screams growing quiet in the distance.

I feel tired. Not high. Just drained. I’m dissapointed in my nightly dose. It isn’t strong enough. I hold my cravings inside. Lurking at the back of my skull. Hoping to hold them at bay until tomorrow.

I picture the junkies across America. All of us snuggled up warm under the covers. Cradling track marks and secret desires for more more more. It is comforting and disgusting all at once.

But that’s life.

Until next time,

Sarah

Entangled

I'm sitting behind the pharmacy right now. The sun pouring through the trees on to the brown, cracked leaves. All the amphetamines in my system has made the day fly. My mind keeps flipping from project to project--unable to stay focused on the task at hand.

My guts buckle. But I ignore it and keep smoking my cigarette. Blowing blue smoke into the cool fall air.

Last night I gave into temptation. we had dinner with my parents. I couldn't abort my oxymorphone--I didn't want to fall nose first into my plate of enchiladas. But even the alcohol from my margarita and my pills couldn't get me high. I needed it like so many nights before. I returned home, unable to settle down, without the thought bubbling up. There was no more fighting it.

I crushed up the pill and inhaled through my left nostril. The powder didn't burn.

A few minutes later I was overcome with a warm pleasure. My eyes fell closed half closed. Heaven was finally within my grasp. All the customers and pain drained away into a puddle of oblivion.

Each cigarette felt better than the last as I chain smoked outside. Unable to stop myself. Once more entangled in my vices.

Fuck, back to work. At least they replaced the employee toilet. I can get some peace as my guts roll out my stomach like a sick joke.

Until next time my friend,

Lucy

Bang, Bang, I'm Gone!

I'm sitting on the bus right now. Babyshambles blasting in my headphones to tune out the hum of the motor. Evening sun pouring through the thick plastic windows. My eyes are half open, I've been struggling to stay awake all day.

Last night's high has bled into today.

I get home and immediately get to work. R and our friends are over hanging out in the living room.

I go into the bedroom and grab one of my generic oxymorphone er 10mg tablets. I take an alcohol pad to wipe off the outer coating. The sunkist color has been removed, now leaving it slick, white. I put it in my pill grinder and turn until it is a fine powder. Then I inhale deeply through the $2 bill shoved into my left nostril. My pharmacist gave it to me for good luck a few months ago. I snort all of it in a single breath, leaving the back of my throat coated in grit.

By the time it starts to rush over me, the 2 oxys I popped are already flushing my cheeks red. The oxymorphone hits me square between the eyes as I walk outside.

I try to drag my eyes open as I smoke a cigarettes with Nic, Jeff, Lee and R. Lee is staring at his phone typing--his eyes never leaving the screen.

"Yo that dope I got this weekend was basically all fentanyl. It had crazy legs." Lee says breaking his silence.

"Like a fine wine?" I smirk.

"Yeah... I did a point and I was puking the entire show on Saturday night."

"Damn."

"Yeah, usually I need like 3 points to feel it. But I was nodding hard off of 1 point."

"You gotta be careful..." I sound more like an older sister than a friend. I worry about that kid.

"I know... I just can't get it out of my head. I hadn't done any for like 3 weeks, but then I ran right back to it."

"I hear you. It's rough."

Everyone else dissolves into background noise, scenery. They all walk inside, leaving the 2 junkies to commiserate.

"Dude, you don't want to be like me in a decade..." I say "Well, I mean, I have most of my shit together, but you know what I mean."

Lee laughs, "Yeah, it doesn't seem so bad what you have. But I get what you mean."

It hits me that I'm the definition of a functioning addict; with a great marriage, full-time job, apartment, plus a kitten and a rabbit, from the outside no one would ever know that my mind is consumed with thoughts of my next high.

"Anyway, I'm gonna go pick up like $40 worth." It's said more like an offer than a statement, since he usually picks up for me when I want some.

"That's cool man." I put the thought of my mind. The oxymorphone has got me good and high right now--I don't need anything else.

I look down at my phone and see a text from R: Don't buy H. The implication of the text annoys me, that I'm going to buy H because Lee is.

Lee follows me inside. Jeff, Nic, and R are sprawled out on the laid down futon and the floor. I recline on the futon next to Nic. It's nice to have her here with me. She's come down from NY to hang out for a few weeks. There's no definite day when she'll leave, and I prefer it that way. I wish I could convince her to never go back and move to TX.


Nic's arm is cradling a 40 of Mickey's mixed with 4Loko Gold; her drink of choice. 

Rick and Morty are on TV. Jeff and R are having an animated discussion over Dan Harmon's storytelling formula. I've heard it a million times from R.

Lee is staring at his phone once more. Not even taking a moment away from it to sit down.

"I'm going to RBM to meet up with Tito, anyone need anything?"

Before we can respond he's out the door.

I've only sat down for 5 minutes before I'm back outside smoking a cigarette. The urge overpowering my desire to be social. Lee comes back up the steps. His cracked and ripped combat boots slapping the cement steps.

"I didn't pick up." He sighs, sitting down in the chair on the other side of our outdoor table.

"I'm proud of you dude, that's a really hard thing to do."

"I hadn't used for 2 weeks and then I picked up a few days ago, and I can't stop hating myself for doing it again. I can't get it out of my head, but I hate myself every time I do it."

"That's one of the hardest things. I understand that. I'm really proud of you. It's a tough decision, but you did it. I know it sucks."

"Yeah, it really fucking sucks." He sucks on his cigarettes.

"You can always talk to me about this stuff. I won't judge you, like I get it."

"Thanks, that means a lot."

"Of course."

Silence descends over us. I stare back at my phone, shuffling through Facebook and Twitter.

Lee returns inside, but I don't follow him. I need another cigarette. Another moment of silence to think.



Love you,
Lucy

P.S. This song has been stuck in my head for the past few weeks... bang bang I'm gone!