Feb. 27, 2012 3:06 p.m.
I had never thought in a million years that this would be me. I have always struggled. Struggled mainly with my emotional self, my weight, my past, my financial future, with things that seemed so much more able to change, control. This is something far different, something which seems alien, something I am barely clinging to with the edge of my finger tips. Addiction.
This is day one of my recovery, for lack of a more inspirational, creative and all together better term.
Briefly, when I was younger, I skimmed the surface of 'alcoholism.' While I don't think I ever fully believed I was an 'alcoholic,' without a doubt, my father was. I suppose in my own subconscious way. I dubbed myself an 'alcoholic', partly to understand my very mysterious father, and partly to feel apart of someone I never much felt a part of or near.
At fifteen, I found myself going to daily meetings, learning the steps, getting to know "Bill", obtaining various sobriety chips, even going as far as obtaining a sponsor. The further I emotionally embraced this recovery group, people who gathered to save their own lives, the more fraud-like I felt. Sure I drank more than any fifteen year old should, if any at all, but the questioned always remained: Was I really an alcoholic? These people were here chanting the Serenity Prayer for a reason. Why was I here? To exploit them for my own personal and free therapy in a desperate attempt to gain a sense of friendship, family, togetherness?
Today I sit here thinking about those meetings, and all those people who painfully recalled their very troubled pasts in a genuine attempt to help one another, to help me. I never thought this would be me. My life consumed with addiction. Those meetings now, more than fifteen years later, are invaluable to me considering my current condition.
Here I am. Upon the advice of a good friend, for whatever reason finds my words inspirational and somewhat entertaining to read, I start this diary of sorts outlining my attempt(s), which I hope are not futile, to get clean.
My name is Jes. I am addicted to opioids. My drug of choice: prescription pills - oxycodone, hydrocodone, and on occassion, oxycontin.
Prescription drugs. To me, in my own fucked up way, it doesn't sound as bad as saying the word heroin, for example. Even though my drug of choice are prescription narcotics, they are but just a stone's throw away from shooting dope. I wonder, if I hadn't made this decision now after years of using, could that eventually be me?
Growing up in Baltimore, dope was probably by far the most popular drug, next to weed of course. When I was a kid, I can vividly remember sitting with my best friend watching the neighborhood boys puke from the second story of a house just two doors from hers, having tried it for now, the first time of many. I made a silent vow to myself, this would never be me.
Now look at me. Here I sit as close as I can possibly get, addicted. Hating myself, in part, for having the privilege to know better, yet allowing myself to become a statistic.
I can still remember a time where I refused pain medication, even when it was justified. My eldest daughter was delivered via c-section. I can still hear the nurse practically begging me to take just one percocet as I sat bawling in pain. I sobbed, yet refused. Ironically, I refused because being here, where I am at this moment, was my primary fear.
I guess the addiction began with my back injury and subsequent hospital stay in June of 2009. This injury would also become my crutch and justification for my present state of addiction. I was diagnosed with a torn slipped disc between L4and L5 and degenerative arthritis in my lower spin and both hips.
And so it began.
At first, addiction being my primary fear, I tried hard to adhere to doctor's orders. Taking only what was prescribed, it barely scraped the surface allowing me to physically function. When the doctor's refused to listen to my cries of pain, I then became my own physician, finding pharmacies in the street.
The last few years of active using hold little memory of anything significant pertaining to the drug abuse. Like a snowball, tumbling down the side of a mountain, picking up speed and size, the abuse grew. My tolerance became increasingly higher as the days, weeks, months, and eventually years went on. I noticed that the sense of pain free euphoria I gained freed me physically and emotionally. I was more compliant, less irritated, motivated, patient, happy. It all seemed so positive, until of course, the bottle was empty.
I soon realized that my legitimate pain was nothing compared to what it was to run out and be sick. It didn't even belong on the same scale. I knew once I began taking 20-30mg at least six to eight times a day, I would eventually be in trouble. Lumps in the back of your throat, an emptiness in the pit of your stomach, tears standing at attention and ready to fall, I feared running out and being sick. I allowed the snowball to continue to tumble, grow.
My pill bottle became my number one companion. Accompanying me out to dinner, the mall, work, and always faithfully next to my bed. Wherever I went it became habit to shove fistfulls in my mouth at any given time. Every couple of hours and always biting them in half to be sure to break any time release in order the effect kick in faster. It became normal to wake in the middle of the night to pump myself full of pills to avoid waking up sick.
Sick. For me there are no words that justified what a true nightmare it actually is. Hot and cold, almost menopausal, sweats, leg cramps eventually mutating into gripping charlie horses, and inability to remain still, an ache that overtook me from the top of my head to the tip of my toes, would all combine forces to paralyze me with pain. The emotional toll was just as strong. What the fuck have I done? I would find myself praying to a God I hoped would listen, begging for relief in the form of an abundance of pills.
Being sick was my new fear. My actual physical pain, which began this vicious cycle, was minor in comparison. I have been fortunate enough to have either been prescribed, able to afford, or given the pills to feed this always hungry habit.
I didn't hit rock bottom as most rehabilitation stories begin. I never was a prostitute, never stole, became homeless, and never subjected my children to the usual horrors of addiction that you so often hear ringing loud in meetings, rehab therapy or getting sober books.
I simply lost my sense of self and my addiction became my definition. I was my biggest disappointment, my biggest fear. I hated myself for allowing myself to become something I loathed.
Maybe God was listening. Rehab was an will always be a last resort. I became an addict all by myself and would defeat this all by myself.
A friend, another street pharmacist, and who is likewise addicted told me about a drug called Soboxone. He explained this drug masked the withdrawals and was used to treat opioid addiction. He had these pills readily available and after a few Google searches and a long talk with my fiance, I decided it was time to kick this $60/day habit. If the pills didn't kill me, my self loathing would.
So this morning it began. AND IT SUCKED.
First, I had to be in a state of withdrawal for the Soboxane to effectively work.
Soboxone is a narcotic and can be addictive (how ass backwards is that). It is used to treat everything from pill addiction to heroin addiction. That fact, as fearful as it sounds, was comforting to me. I had witnessed heroin addiction at its worst more times than I can count. If this can mask the heroin withdrawals, it certainly can soothe my pill withdrawal.
I took a few percocet around 10 p.m. the night before. Around 3:30 a.m. the sweats began. I tried my best to ignore it and sleep. It was difficult. I was so used to bandaiding it all up with another fistfull of pills without even a thought or a blink. Finally around 9 a.m. I could take no more. My fiance came in with a plate and knife and carved the little orange pill with the N8 inscription into four almost-equal slices.
I took the biggest quarter of the Soboxone pill and pathetically and desperately licked my finger to scrounge up the left over dust onto my tongue. I had to allow this pill to dissolve under my tongue. The taste was awful. Tasting much like a Sweet Tart with no "sweet" and an over abundance of sour, I drowned myself in Pepsi and Mt. Dew until the taste dissipated. Now I wait...
I few minutes waste away in prayer, the sweats begin to subside. It did take away the hot and cold sweats, but all other reminders remained current, clear and strong. My legs still cramped, I begin to sob. THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO WORK! My hope begins to fade. I took the rest of the pill.
There was no turning back. And yes, I had contemplated. The fact is Soboxone is an opioid blocker. If I were to turn back, I would be ten times more sick than I was this morning. This, I can't even imagine.
Hours later, seventeen to be exact, here I sit, Partly amazed, but still disgusted it has come to this.
