A couple of tough truths
As I write, I sit in bed. It has been seventy-two hours or thereabouts since my last drink. Now that my head is clearing, I know in my heart what is happening. I drink for a variety of reasons, a plethora of mythologies, but the biggest one is that I do not want to face this life.
This state of being.
It’s unpleasant for me; it’s hurtful to think about the horrific past and the bleak future. To hear the cars zoom past my window knowing these people have some sort of decency in their lives further sets my stomach into a pit.
Currently, I’m recovering from a surgical procedure in which I was given some synthetic morphine. I was in bed rest for quite some time and was given a calming agent that coupled itself with the morphine and reinforced the addiction.
Upon release, more pain pills.
Follow up with the surgeon.
More pain pills. This time I had the good sense to tell him I have addiction issues. He said that this was my last prescription then. I told him that I was fine and asked for no more refills.
I consumed a bottle of pain reliever that was, at best, designed for nine days within seventy-two hours, washing it down with copious amounts of alcohol. When the pill withdrawals came, I drank more alcohol, staying sober long enough only to see my therapist and discuss it with him.
He told me about a controversial treatment called a harm reduction model. Where instead of complete abstinence it’s better to have a drink now and then so you don’t have a red flag in front of your face.
I know that red flag. I know it all too damned well.
It’s waving me in the face as I type. Liquid courage.
The so-called courage to face the demons of my youth and those things that haunt me today.
The problem is you really don’t get anything done.
Yes, alcohols, morphine, all the other drugs can block out pain, but they also deliver pain as well. It’s a double-edged sword. Used correctly to manage pain and they function with minimal side effects.
Consider if I had used the medication correctly. I would be in far less pain and incapacitation than I am right now, sitting on a bed, writing this reflection upon my addiction. I found it to easy to pop the pill, swig the beer and get that little buzz.
Then sleep it off.
Wake up, either high, or not, but still that little bottle of tablets and pint of cheap malt liquor was there.
Waking up at oh-dark thirty to be the first at the little minute mart down the street to buy my malt liquor, thinking I was smart because I could fit up to five cans in my purse.
Later on, becoming mildly sober enough to drive, mid-afternoon, slipping by my housemates, for a refill; thinking myself quite clever to be able to bring it in under their noses.
Laughing to myself all the while.
Yet now, now that I am sober, and yes, I do want a drink, I have a variety of feelings, emotions that I have to contend with.
So for now, allow myself the luxury of crying in my room. When I was inebriated, I couldn’t do that very much, for some odd reasons.
Now I can. I can feel again.
I can also choose to hide, but this time in the security of knowing a bit more about my addiction. If that isn’t worth reflecting about, I don’t know what is.