I sat on the floor, and held my children in my lap, and thought, Why? Why am I their mother? Every day, I destroy them a little more.
It didn't occur to me that I had depression. I didn't feel depressed. I felt nothing. There was a gaping hole where my feelings were supposed to be, a giant black vortex in the center of my chest that fretted and fretted as I looked at my son and thought, They say he has autism, and it's all my fault. I did this to him. It's all my fault.
I thought taking the pills made me a better mother. I thought they made me kinder, and lovelier. Mostly, though, I took them because, when I didn't, I wanted to die. That's the way active addiction works, I discovered. I started taking prescribed painkillers to manage my chronic pain. Before I knew it, they were completely managing me.
One day, my doctors decided I'd had enough. They cut me off of my painkillers abruptly, and quickly. There was no medical intervention, no tapering, no counseling, no warning of what was to come. I didn't know I was in withdrawl, until it hit me. All of a sudden, I was shaking, sweating, crying. My skin was crawling. I felt like I was dying. My chronic pain was unbearable. My head felt like it was compressing, and it was going to implode on itself. I sat, wild-eyed, wondering how I could kill myself. I knew I couldn't live without the pills. I knew I couldn't feel like this forever, and in my ragged, withdrawing mind, this feeling would certainly be forever.
I couldn't go on. I had to end it. How will it be? Will I crash my car? Throw myself off a bridge?
One day, my doctors decided I'd had enough. They cut me off of my painkillers abruptly, and quickly. There was no medical intervention, no tapering, no counseling, no warning of what was to come. I didn't know I was in withdrawl, until it hit me. All of a sudden, I was shaking, sweating, crying. My skin was crawling. I felt like I was dying. My chronic pain was unbearable. My head felt like it was compressing, and it was going to implode on itself. I sat, wild-eyed, wondering how I could kill myself. I knew I couldn't live without the pills. I knew I couldn't feel like this forever, and in my ragged, withdrawing mind, this feeling would certainly be forever.
I couldn't go on. I had to end it. How will it be? Will I crash my car? Throw myself off a bridge?
That day, I staggered across the lawn to take the trash out. As I walked, I thought of how I was going to die. I looked up, and was met with the frowning face of my neighbor, sitting on her porch, watching me.
"Are you okay?" She asked.
"No." I said.
"What's wrong?"
"My doctors stopped prescribing my painkillers. I'm in a lot of pain." I spat it out, the truth. I was surprised to hear myself say it out loud.
My neighbor looked at me, cocked her head to the side, contemplating something.
"Come in." She finally said. Not knowing what else to do, I followed her inside.
Her house was filthy, and there was nowhere to sit, so I stood. It smelled of cat urine and cigarette smoke, and my eyes burned. She fished out a prescription bottle, hidden in her desk drawer, and shook out a couple of pills.
"Take these." She said.
"What are they?" I asked.
"It's methadone. They made it for heroin addicts, to kick heroin."
"But I'm not using heroin..."
"They will help you." She said, closing them into my palm.
"But I'm in pain...are these going to stop the pain?"
"Yes. These will make the pain stop."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. But they're 10 mg each. I'd suggest taking a half, and seeing how you feel."
I thanked her, sincerely. I left her house, and took a deep breath of fresh air. The sun was warm on my face. A dog barked down the street. My neighborhood was just as it was when I went into the house, but it suddenly felt so different now. Everything was brighter, happier. I looked down at the pills in my hand. Suddenly, I felt my body lurch. The sight of those crisp, white pills; those little nuggets of promise. Promise of relief. I needed it. I NEEDED relief. I bolted to my kitchen and took an entire 10 mg pill, forgetting about cutting it in half, my body on auto pilot, my brain on another planet. I came to, after the deed was done, the first pill gone. A thought flitted through my head, a thought similar to what did I just do? I stared at the remaining pills, stunned. I knew this was wrong. But I was in so much pain. So much pain. I bundled the rest in plastic wrap, and hid them in my closet. A classic addict move. The first of many.
I didn't know that methadone was basically synthetic heroin. Frankly, I didn't care what it was. I was too desperate to care. And, looking back on it, my story is just like thousands and thousands of other stories:
A) Person receives painkillers for pain.
B) Person becomes opiate dependent.
C) Person gets abruptly denied medication, without addressing the addiction.
D) Person suffers withdrawls, and seeks opiates elsewhere (This is where street drugs usually come in).
About twenty minutes after swallowing that first methadone, I felt better than I'd ever remembered feeling. I was happy. No, not happy, I was ecstatic! I was on top of the world! I could do anything!
I cleaned the house, and made dinner. When my husband got home from work, he looked at me sideways.
"You're feeling better." He mumbled, remembering how he left me that morning- curled in a ball on the couch.
I beamed at him. You have no idea, I thought.
When no one was looking, I peeked into my closet. I reached in and felt them, the pills, wrapped in plastic. A pang of guilt surged through me, and I thought of my husband. This would kill him, I thought. I can't lie to him, I thought.
This is the only way, my addiction whispered back. This is the only way to be a good wife to him, a good mother to your kids. This is the only way.
This is the only way.
"What are they?" I asked.
"It's methadone. They made it for heroin addicts, to kick heroin."
"But I'm not using heroin..."
"They will help you." She said, closing them into my palm.
"But I'm in pain...are these going to stop the pain?"
"Yes. These will make the pain stop."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. But they're 10 mg each. I'd suggest taking a half, and seeing how you feel."
I thanked her, sincerely. I left her house, and took a deep breath of fresh air. The sun was warm on my face. A dog barked down the street. My neighborhood was just as it was when I went into the house, but it suddenly felt so different now. Everything was brighter, happier. I looked down at the pills in my hand. Suddenly, I felt my body lurch. The sight of those crisp, white pills; those little nuggets of promise. Promise of relief. I needed it. I NEEDED relief. I bolted to my kitchen and took an entire 10 mg pill, forgetting about cutting it in half, my body on auto pilot, my brain on another planet. I came to, after the deed was done, the first pill gone. A thought flitted through my head, a thought similar to what did I just do? I stared at the remaining pills, stunned. I knew this was wrong. But I was in so much pain. So much pain. I bundled the rest in plastic wrap, and hid them in my closet. A classic addict move. The first of many.
I didn't know that methadone was basically synthetic heroin. Frankly, I didn't care what it was. I was too desperate to care. And, looking back on it, my story is just like thousands and thousands of other stories:
A) Person receives painkillers for pain.
B) Person becomes opiate dependent.
C) Person gets abruptly denied medication, without addressing the addiction.
D) Person suffers withdrawls, and seeks opiates elsewhere (This is where street drugs usually come in).
About twenty minutes after swallowing that first methadone, I felt better than I'd ever remembered feeling. I was happy. No, not happy, I was ecstatic! I was on top of the world! I could do anything!
I cleaned the house, and made dinner. When my husband got home from work, he looked at me sideways.
"You're feeling better." He mumbled, remembering how he left me that morning- curled in a ball on the couch.
I beamed at him. You have no idea, I thought.
When no one was looking, I peeked into my closet. I reached in and felt them, the pills, wrapped in plastic. A pang of guilt surged through me, and I thought of my husband. This would kill him, I thought. I can't lie to him, I thought.
This is the only way, my addiction whispered back. This is the only way to be a good wife to him, a good mother to your kids. This is the only way.
This is the only way.
