Finally, I have decided to take advantage of my new scanner to scan some of my old artwork into electronic form. Rather than clutter up the whole blog with pictures (I have mercy on those of you with dial-up connections) I uploaded them to my Comcast site, and here are the links instead.
This picture was painted in 1994, while JP and I were living together. In fact, there is a subset of these pictures which were painted on the same night, the night before New Years' Eve, when JP and his friend Justin and I sat at the kitchen table all night, painting and talking and making plans.
These three were painted by JP on that same night.
One
Two
Three
Here's another one of mine from that night. I couldn't begin to explain it.
I like spirals. Can you tell?
A few months later, I painted this and this. We had a collection of heroin-themed artwork; these were part of it. A year or so later, when I'd learned a little (both about addiction and Illustrator) I created this, which would have fit in nicely with that collection.
I think I must have been really, really bored when I did this one. It's not as impressive when it's scanned, but each of those shapes is cut from construction paper and glued to the background. (I think a few pieces may have been lost in the intervening years.) This came from North Carolina, while I was staying with Firefly.
This came from another bout of boredom, this time at work. I was just learning to play with Illustrator, and I was amazed at how it came out.
And finally, a few more random contributions:
eyeball
drown
heart
Once I can get my dratted evil digital camera working, I'll post pictures of my non-paper-based artwork too.
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
When the Party's Over
One of the hardest parts of addiction--and I had forgotten this from my last go-around, six years ago--is cleaning up afterwards. It's hard enough to close your eyes and grit your teeth and say "Okay, I'm DONE with this now,"--but it's a lot harder, while your teeth are still gritted and your knuckles are still white, to look around and say "...and I messed up THIS and THIS and THIS..." Because the easiest way to forget about all the things you messed up while you were getting high? Is by getting high again.
Well, that's not an option for me, in more ways than one.
After one last use, I threw out all my needles yesterday; buried them at the bottom of a bag of trash and walked it out to the alley myself. And normally, grand-sweeping-gesture-of-it-all aside, that would present only a very minor and easily-surmounted obstacle to getting high; after all, I know most of the places where the harm-reduction van stops, and they're very lenient about giving you supplies even if you're not "exchanging" needles as such. (They didn't used to be that way. It used to be, if you didn't have needles to dump, you couldn't get any fresh ones. Not sure when that changed.) And I've made this gesture before; the only outcome would be that a few days later I'd drive to the van and pick up a new batch of needles, and drive home feeling more defeated than before.
Except I can't do that now. The harm-reduction van is on vacation, til after New Year's Day. I think they come back on the 3rd, but I'm not sure, and either way I don't care. I have thrown away all my needles and I am not going back to get more. I have over a week to get my head together, a week during which I absolutely cannot get high. I have put an insurmountable obstacle in between myself and my addiction.
Well, not "insurmountable"--I'm sure if I was feeling ingenious enough, I could manage to scrounge up a needle somewhere. But I am in no way prepared to WORK at getting high. I am prepared to work AGAINST getting high, as a matter of fact. I am tired of feeling defeated, tired of muttering under my breath "I am NOT a bad person" and not being quite sure I believe it. I know what I want out of life and this isn't it. So I made it so that I CAN'T get high, at least for a week--and if I want to get high THEN, I'm going to have to take a concrete, thought-out action by going to the needle-exchange. There are about a million points in that process where I can stop myself and say "This is not what I want from my life." I'm not saying it's 100% guaranteed to work, but I'm giving myself a better chance, at least.
And it's a good thing, too, because now comes the hard part.
The wreckage is not so bad, I don't think. I should be grateful the relapse was only two months--a couple more months and there would have been a lot more mess to clean up. There were a couple of bills that didn't get paid, I know, and I spent a lot of money I could have used more productively; but all in all it could have been much worse. I can catch up on bills, and my tax refund will be here by early March (I always file as soon as I have my last check stubs for the year), so I can patch up any financial leaks when that check comes. But it's still scary. I've avoided opening bills for a month or more--as if they'd go away if I didn't open them! That's the sort of thing I used to do when I was really, REALLY in debt. It didn't work then, and it's not going to work now. (Don't you wish things DID work like that, though? Where if you didn't open a bill, you wouldn't have to pay it?)
I think I'm worrying needlessly, exaggerating the amount of damage I've done to my life because I feel guilty for relapsing in the first place...and THAT is a perfect example of the sort of thought process that's characterized my latest depression. I question EVERYTHING about myself--I don't trust even my own good intentions. For months now I've felt as though I've completely lost faith in myself; I've felt like a fraud, like all the things people admire about me are just an elaborate facade, hiding someone that NOBODY could admire. And it's horrible to feel that way. It's hard to describe what it's like...like not only am I questioning what I believe, but I'm questioning the whole concept of "belief", and even the existence of the words I would use to discuss that concept...or the letters in the words, or the pixels that make up the letters....I feel like the core of my world is completely unstable, but in a very narrow way. Everything else goes on as usual, but everything I believe is shaken all the way down. I wish I could articulate it better, because I know this doesn't make a lot of sense. It doesn't make a lot of sense to me, either; I just know I want it to go away.
My first appointment with my therapist is on New Years' Eve. She sounds very strait-laced and serious--but then again, I only spoke to her for a few minutes, so it's early to draw any conclusions. I'm nervous, I'll admit, but more than that I'm hopeful. I'm starting to visualize the kind of life I want, and I know I have to take some big steps before I can get there.
So here I am: Day One, And I Mean It This Time.
Well, that's not an option for me, in more ways than one.
After one last use, I threw out all my needles yesterday; buried them at the bottom of a bag of trash and walked it out to the alley myself. And normally, grand-sweeping-gesture-of-it-all aside, that would present only a very minor and easily-surmounted obstacle to getting high; after all, I know most of the places where the harm-reduction van stops, and they're very lenient about giving you supplies even if you're not "exchanging" needles as such. (They didn't used to be that way. It used to be, if you didn't have needles to dump, you couldn't get any fresh ones. Not sure when that changed.) And I've made this gesture before; the only outcome would be that a few days later I'd drive to the van and pick up a new batch of needles, and drive home feeling more defeated than before.
Except I can't do that now. The harm-reduction van is on vacation, til after New Year's Day. I think they come back on the 3rd, but I'm not sure, and either way I don't care. I have thrown away all my needles and I am not going back to get more. I have over a week to get my head together, a week during which I absolutely cannot get high. I have put an insurmountable obstacle in between myself and my addiction.
Well, not "insurmountable"--I'm sure if I was feeling ingenious enough, I could manage to scrounge up a needle somewhere. But I am in no way prepared to WORK at getting high. I am prepared to work AGAINST getting high, as a matter of fact. I am tired of feeling defeated, tired of muttering under my breath "I am NOT a bad person" and not being quite sure I believe it. I know what I want out of life and this isn't it. So I made it so that I CAN'T get high, at least for a week--and if I want to get high THEN, I'm going to have to take a concrete, thought-out action by going to the needle-exchange. There are about a million points in that process where I can stop myself and say "This is not what I want from my life." I'm not saying it's 100% guaranteed to work, but I'm giving myself a better chance, at least.
And it's a good thing, too, because now comes the hard part.
The wreckage is not so bad, I don't think. I should be grateful the relapse was only two months--a couple more months and there would have been a lot more mess to clean up. There were a couple of bills that didn't get paid, I know, and I spent a lot of money I could have used more productively; but all in all it could have been much worse. I can catch up on bills, and my tax refund will be here by early March (I always file as soon as I have my last check stubs for the year), so I can patch up any financial leaks when that check comes. But it's still scary. I've avoided opening bills for a month or more--as if they'd go away if I didn't open them! That's the sort of thing I used to do when I was really, REALLY in debt. It didn't work then, and it's not going to work now. (Don't you wish things DID work like that, though? Where if you didn't open a bill, you wouldn't have to pay it?)
I think I'm worrying needlessly, exaggerating the amount of damage I've done to my life because I feel guilty for relapsing in the first place...and THAT is a perfect example of the sort of thought process that's characterized my latest depression. I question EVERYTHING about myself--I don't trust even my own good intentions. For months now I've felt as though I've completely lost faith in myself; I've felt like a fraud, like all the things people admire about me are just an elaborate facade, hiding someone that NOBODY could admire. And it's horrible to feel that way. It's hard to describe what it's like...like not only am I questioning what I believe, but I'm questioning the whole concept of "belief", and even the existence of the words I would use to discuss that concept...or the letters in the words, or the pixels that make up the letters....I feel like the core of my world is completely unstable, but in a very narrow way. Everything else goes on as usual, but everything I believe is shaken all the way down. I wish I could articulate it better, because I know this doesn't make a lot of sense. It doesn't make a lot of sense to me, either; I just know I want it to go away.
My first appointment with my therapist is on New Years' Eve. She sounds very strait-laced and serious--but then again, I only spoke to her for a few minutes, so it's early to draw any conclusions. I'm nervous, I'll admit, but more than that I'm hopeful. I'm starting to visualize the kind of life I want, and I know I have to take some big steps before I can get there.
So here I am: Day One, And I Mean It This Time.
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Damn!
Well, I missed my big milestone: At 6:59 PM on December 26th, The Story of Why received its 20.000th hit. It came from Arlington Heights, IL and they didn't seem to do anything interesting--dropped by, read something, and dropped out. And I am amazed that, on 20,000 separate occasions, someone thought "Hm, that sounds interesting" or "Gee, I wonder what Gladys is up to" or even "Holy God I'm bored--here, lemme kill another three minutes with this dreck."
So, anonymous non-message-leaving Arlington-Heights-dwelling reader: thank you. And thank you to the other 19,999 of you, as well. As I've said before, I don't know what keeps you coming back, but I'm glad you do.
So, anonymous non-message-leaving Arlington-Heights-dwelling reader: thank you. And thank you to the other 19,999 of you, as well. As I've said before, I don't know what keeps you coming back, but I'm glad you do.
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Merry Christmas
I log in from my old room at Mom's (OS 9 Mac, dial-up connection, slower than the slowest thing ever) to wish you all a happy holiday and to thank you all for being a part of my life. I hope you're surrounded by the people you love, all your wishes come true, and all your holiday desserts are magically stripped of calories.
I'll be back on Sunday night or Monday. Take care, everyone.
I'll be back on Sunday night or Monday. Take care, everyone.
Monday, December 19, 2005
Tipping Point
Today at lunch I got into the car and discovered that Q101, the local alternative station, is trying to kill me.
Their latest "gimmick" is: 13 Years in 13 Days. They're playing back the top 101 songs of each year they've existed in their current format: 1993-2005. Today was 1993.
Hearing those songs did something to me. I have often hypothesized a point at which I just wasn't going to be able to stand it anymore; where all the pain of losing JP would crash in on me and I would be completely helpless, completely wrecked beneath the weight. I have lived pretty much in fear of that moment, especially the part where I didn't know what would bring it about.
I think I ran headlong into that moment today. I can't even describe how lost I felt, how lonely those songs made me feel--and even more, how shaken I was to realize that of those thirteen years, only three of them ever really happened. There was 1993, when I wasn't speaking to JP; there was 1994, when we got back together; and 1995, when we were perfectly happy together until he died. After that everything is a blur, insignificant--as though it happened to someone else.
I do not want the rest of my life to happen to someone else.
I called the hotline number for the company's mental-health benefits provider, and I got a referral. I went through the whole rigamarole: I need a referral for depression, yes there's substance abuse, then answer everything about substance abuse and very little about the depression itself--oh, I know this game, and I think I managed to cover up the fact that I was crying through most of the conversation. "What do you think triggered this depression?" she finally asked, this nice lady, and I took a deep breath and said "I don't exactly know." Which was a lie, but not exactly a lie; more a case of How long have you got?
And I got my referral, and a number to call tomorrow--which I will do, even though today's call was about as much strength as I care to summon for a while. At least I did something, even if it took all my energy to do it.
I don't know what happens next. I know that I'm already tired of crying, and I'm not even an hour into this process yet.
And oh, god, how I miss him....
Their latest "gimmick" is: 13 Years in 13 Days. They're playing back the top 101 songs of each year they've existed in their current format: 1993-2005. Today was 1993.
Hearing those songs did something to me. I have often hypothesized a point at which I just wasn't going to be able to stand it anymore; where all the pain of losing JP would crash in on me and I would be completely helpless, completely wrecked beneath the weight. I have lived pretty much in fear of that moment, especially the part where I didn't know what would bring it about.
I think I ran headlong into that moment today. I can't even describe how lost I felt, how lonely those songs made me feel--and even more, how shaken I was to realize that of those thirteen years, only three of them ever really happened. There was 1993, when I wasn't speaking to JP; there was 1994, when we got back together; and 1995, when we were perfectly happy together until he died. After that everything is a blur, insignificant--as though it happened to someone else.
I do not want the rest of my life to happen to someone else.
I called the hotline number for the company's mental-health benefits provider, and I got a referral. I went through the whole rigamarole: I need a referral for depression, yes there's substance abuse, then answer everything about substance abuse and very little about the depression itself--oh, I know this game, and I think I managed to cover up the fact that I was crying through most of the conversation. "What do you think triggered this depression?" she finally asked, this nice lady, and I took a deep breath and said "I don't exactly know." Which was a lie, but not exactly a lie; more a case of How long have you got?
And I got my referral, and a number to call tomorrow--which I will do, even though today's call was about as much strength as I care to summon for a while. At least I did something, even if it took all my energy to do it.
I don't know what happens next. I know that I'm already tired of crying, and I'm not even an hour into this process yet.
And oh, god, how I miss him....
Sunday, December 18, 2005
Arts, Crafts, and Memes
New meme, thanks to Brando at One Child Left Behind: Take the first sentence of the first entry of each month from the past year and stick them together--an end-of-year first-sentence summary paragraph, or in my case “just a mishmosh of words”.
What scares me most about that paragraph is that there are places in it which actually threaten to have continuity. It makes me think about how lucky I've really been over this past year--largely in escaping the old job, which took up WAY too much of my emotional energy for the first six months of the year.
I also discovered (owing to an influx of new commentors and a spike in weekend traffic, which is notoriously low) that I've been given yet-more kudos in Eric Zorn's blog:
I am always amazed when I hear that people are impressed by this blog. I mean that; to me, it's just my boring life and my boring thoughts, and I can't imagine why anyone would want to read them. Especially now, when my life is not only boring, but transgressive and boring--when I've lost what was, to me, one of the few points of pride I had, my six years of clean time and my sense of being "one of the few" to move on from addiction and not look back...I'm amazed, is all, that anyone wants to read this. And I'm moved, not to mention astonished and thankful, that anyone at all would be rooting for me.
I'd like to say I've lived up to that level of support, but I haven't, completely; however, I've done substantially better this past weekend than last weekend, or the several weekends before. I'm trying. I will succeed. And I thank all of you--new readers, faithful regulars, and lurkers--for your unwavering support. I can't say I understand it, but I'm grateful for it.
I was thinking of maybe using this experience as thematic fodder for a quilt--a one-year-of-sobriety quilt. I have about a million little fabric squares, 3 x 3 in, in dozens of different colors and patterns. The way I've visualized it: each day clean gets a colored square; each day not-clean gets a plain black square. Each day I would stitch the previous day's square into the chain. I'd make it 14 blocks across (2 weeks) and 26 blocks long (total of 52 weeks). At the end of the year I'll have graphic representation of how far I've come--which will give me a strong incentive to stay clean, because I LOVE colorful things!--and I'll have a warm blanket, which I ALSO love. It's just a thought...I've been more in a craft-y state of mind when it comes to self-expression.
In fact: I'm going upstairs, take my shower, fold my laundry, and do some needlepoint before I go to sleep. Goodnight, everyone...
Okay, so maybe last night was the cosmically couldn't-have-picked-a-worse-night night to do what I did. Never eat half a fresh pineapple in one sitting. Today is LJ's birthday, which means he gets to go out drinking with his friends and doing god-knows-what while I stay home. Last weekend, Q101--the local "alternative" station here in Chicago since 1992, which made it a major fixture in the better memories of the past 13 years--did an experimental thing called "Q101 on Shuffle". Today I found out that there's a good chance I'll be losing my job soon. Not to jinx it or anything, BUT...I had two interviews this morning. Fridays before the holiday weekends are generally ghost towns among the staff at Place Where I Work--at least, among the higher-up staff. Something I've never seen before: The drug spot in front of Chez Gladys now has its own sandwich truck. It's been a long week. Reluctantly, I've had to turn on that hateful "word-verification" feature in comments. Well, I'm back, thanks to a well-loved laptop no one at work wanted anymore. I'm not exactly dead...I've just had very little to say.
What scares me most about that paragraph is that there are places in it which actually threaten to have continuity. It makes me think about how lucky I've really been over this past year--largely in escaping the old job, which took up WAY too much of my emotional energy for the first six months of the year.
I also discovered (owing to an influx of new commentors and a spike in weekend traffic, which is notoriously low) that I've been given yet-more kudos in Eric Zorn's blog:
The most extraordinary and heartfelt site that I read regularly is "The Story of Why" by a local woman who goes by thenom de blog Gladys Cortez. Read this recent posting in which she describes her ongoing efforts to beat heroin addiction while holding down a full-time job. You've just got to root for her.
I am always amazed when I hear that people are impressed by this blog. I mean that; to me, it's just my boring life and my boring thoughts, and I can't imagine why anyone would want to read them. Especially now, when my life is not only boring, but transgressive and boring--when I've lost what was, to me, one of the few points of pride I had, my six years of clean time and my sense of being "one of the few" to move on from addiction and not look back...I'm amazed, is all, that anyone wants to read this. And I'm moved, not to mention astonished and thankful, that anyone at all would be rooting for me.
I'd like to say I've lived up to that level of support, but I haven't, completely; however, I've done substantially better this past weekend than last weekend, or the several weekends before. I'm trying. I will succeed. And I thank all of you--new readers, faithful regulars, and lurkers--for your unwavering support. I can't say I understand it, but I'm grateful for it.
I was thinking of maybe using this experience as thematic fodder for a quilt--a one-year-of-sobriety quilt. I have about a million little fabric squares, 3 x 3 in, in dozens of different colors and patterns. The way I've visualized it: each day clean gets a colored square; each day not-clean gets a plain black square. Each day I would stitch the previous day's square into the chain. I'd make it 14 blocks across (2 weeks) and 26 blocks long (total of 52 weeks). At the end of the year I'll have graphic representation of how far I've come--which will give me a strong incentive to stay clean, because I LOVE colorful things!--and I'll have a warm blanket, which I ALSO love. It's just a thought...I've been more in a craft-y state of mind when it comes to self-expression.
In fact: I'm going upstairs, take my shower, fold my laundry, and do some needlepoint before I go to sleep. Goodnight, everyone...
Friday, December 16, 2005
Urgh.
The nice thing about having one's work computer fuck completely up, so that one is completely unable to access any personal files: no work.
Of course, today was the Non-Denominational Holiday Event and Raffle (I paid $5 for tickets and won....nothin') so not much work was going to get done today anyway. Everyone milled around and ate chips.
(An aside: Could someone please explain to me the mindset which, faced with a holiday potluck, believes that "a bag of Tostitos and a jar of Old El Paso" constitutes an acceptable offering? At every company I've ever worked for, there has been at least one of these people--often more than one. And I certainly don't expect everyone to be a maniac in the kitchen and whip up a quick Chicken Tetrazzini or pan of raspberry cheesecake brownies--but seriously. Show some damn effort, you know?? If you HAVE to bring something purchased--if you're that pressed for time or talent--at least buy something GOOD. A bag of chips and a jar of salsa is like the lowest common denominator of "bring something" foods.)
Personally, I did very little milling OR eating. Our department had its own little holiday potluck yesterday (complete with two chips-and-salsa bringers) and I completely, entirely overdid it. When I went home last night (via Mom's house, where she contributed to the problem by throwing pizza at it) I was as sick as a dog, and I have not been able to eat more than a couple of bites since then. I'm not sure whether it's the result of overeating yesterday; or if something I ate disagreed with me; or if this is from the methadone, which has always been kinda rough on my stomach. I'm leaning toward the methadone.
I finally got to a dose where I'm not sick at night (not DOPEsick, anyway!) and so I've been a very good girl for most of this week. It's much easier now, which is a great relief. I'm still mad as hell about that doctor fiasco--being the wife of the clinic's owner is NOT a qualification to counsel those in crisis, nor is sanctimony and a holier-than-thou attitude. It saddens me that in this day and age, there are still people who think that way. I've never asked for anyone's pity--I'm aware I've made many poor choices in my life--but since everyone makes poor choices at some point, I would hope for at least COMPASSION, especially from an alleged member of the medical profession. And while I am certainly not going to let her lack of compassion interfere with my plans, I wonder how many people HAVE been badly affected by her perception of moral superiority, how many people have taken her words to heart. THAT'S the thing that makes me mad. I'm lucky enough to be able to see through the bullshit--but not everyone is.
I was supposed to go out for Margarita Night with the Girlies tonight, but my stomach just isn't having it; instead I'm going home, taking my shower, and nestling down among my eleven blankets and comforters to watch whatever Netflix sent me. (Netflix should really accept that a two-disc set is ONE title, and send both disks at once....it's maddening to have half a documentary at a time. I think I'm going to upgrade my account to thw two-disks-at-a-time option, which is probably the nefarious plan behind splitting up sets in the first place. But still, as a documentary geek, I adore Netflix.)
One more hour left....
Of course, today was the Non-Denominational Holiday Event and Raffle (I paid $5 for tickets and won....nothin') so not much work was going to get done today anyway. Everyone milled around and ate chips.
(An aside: Could someone please explain to me the mindset which, faced with a holiday potluck, believes that "a bag of Tostitos and a jar of Old El Paso" constitutes an acceptable offering? At every company I've ever worked for, there has been at least one of these people--often more than one. And I certainly don't expect everyone to be a maniac in the kitchen and whip up a quick Chicken Tetrazzini or pan of raspberry cheesecake brownies--but seriously. Show some damn effort, you know?? If you HAVE to bring something purchased--if you're that pressed for time or talent--at least buy something GOOD. A bag of chips and a jar of salsa is like the lowest common denominator of "bring something" foods.)
Personally, I did very little milling OR eating. Our department had its own little holiday potluck yesterday (complete with two chips-and-salsa bringers) and I completely, entirely overdid it. When I went home last night (via Mom's house, where she contributed to the problem by throwing pizza at it) I was as sick as a dog, and I have not been able to eat more than a couple of bites since then. I'm not sure whether it's the result of overeating yesterday; or if something I ate disagreed with me; or if this is from the methadone, which has always been kinda rough on my stomach. I'm leaning toward the methadone.
I finally got to a dose where I'm not sick at night (not DOPEsick, anyway!) and so I've been a very good girl for most of this week. It's much easier now, which is a great relief. I'm still mad as hell about that doctor fiasco--being the wife of the clinic's owner is NOT a qualification to counsel those in crisis, nor is sanctimony and a holier-than-thou attitude. It saddens me that in this day and age, there are still people who think that way. I've never asked for anyone's pity--I'm aware I've made many poor choices in my life--but since everyone makes poor choices at some point, I would hope for at least COMPASSION, especially from an alleged member of the medical profession. And while I am certainly not going to let her lack of compassion interfere with my plans, I wonder how many people HAVE been badly affected by her perception of moral superiority, how many people have taken her words to heart. THAT'S the thing that makes me mad. I'm lucky enough to be able to see through the bullshit--but not everyone is.
I was supposed to go out for Margarita Night with the Girlies tonight, but my stomach just isn't having it; instead I'm going home, taking my shower, and nestling down among my eleven blankets and comforters to watch whatever Netflix sent me. (Netflix should really accept that a two-disc set is ONE title, and send both disks at once....it's maddening to have half a documentary at a time. I think I'm going to upgrade my account to thw two-disks-at-a-time option, which is probably the nefarious plan behind splitting up sets in the first place. But still, as a documentary geek, I adore Netflix.)
One more hour left....
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Obstacle Course
Man oh man oh man.
You know, it's been a very long time since I've had a real good reason to get pissed off about anything. Maybe that's what's been missing in my life; I don't know. I know I do well when I've got something to crusade against. And man, have I got one now.
So to recap: I have gone back to the methadone clinic and gotten back on the program. However, at the same time, I was ALSO doing heroin, to the point that the amount of methadone I was taking (40 mg) wasn't keeping me from getting sick anymore.
I decided I wanted to stop heroin. That was always the plan, and so I've had several long conversations with myself, building my emotional strength up, telling myself that this is not a moral failing, that I'm still a good person, but that I need to get myself back on track and get back to doing the things that are important to me, personally. And I had myself pretty comfortable in that belief. But I knew that if I were to go into withdrawal, that my resolve would crumble and that would be that. I know my own ability to withstand withdrawal, and it is not strong. Anyone who has experienced opiate withdrawal can understand without me saying another word; to anyone who hasn't, I couldn't explain it if I wrote for days. It is a unique misery and defies description.
I also knew that the only thing that would stop that misery before it started was methadone, and that I had put myself in a position where I would need a serious increase in dosage before I could stop heroin. And here is where the clinic system comes into play. State regulations say that the maximum increase in dosage that can be given by a staff member (other than a doctor) is 10 mg at a time. I was at 40 mg and knew that I would need at least 80 mg, probably 90, before I could quit heroin without getting sick. (I discovered this on Sunday, when I tried to quit. It took my whole dose, the half-dose I had hoarded, and the last two methadone tablets from my old hoard for me to make it through the night.) So the counselor gave me a 10-mg increase yesterday, and told me that since I was scheduled to see the clinic's doctor today (a formality for all new intakes), there should be no trouble getting the other 30 mg increase--for an increase that big, only the doctor could sign off on it.
The doctor is only in on Tuesdays between 10:30 and noon. I took an early lunch and went in to the clinic for my appointment. She was a small, late-middle-aged Indian woman, with gray hair, glasses, and a dot on her forehead. She asked me about my history with heroin.
"Well," I told her, "I had six years clean, nearly, and a couple of months ago I experienced a major depression and went back to heroin." I told her I'd been battling depression for a long time.
And here's where I should have known things were gonna go south: "Yes," she said. "Many times, depression in drug users is caused by the fact of being on drugs."
"No," I said, "I don't think that's it. I mean, I was depressed long before I ever tried drugs—I was depressed way back in CHILDHOOD, really, when I look back."
She dismissed that and went back to filling out her forms. "So you were clean for six years...without methadone?"
"No," I told her. "I was on methadone for about eight years. I was clean for nearly six of those years."
"And how long were you without any opiates of any kind?" she asked.
"I was off the methadone for....about eight months, I guess, before this relapse."
Under "Clean Time" she wrote "8 mo." And I thought, WTF??? Are you saying that even though i wasn't doing any non-prescribed opiates, that still doesn't count for you as "clean"? That's pretty much contrary to the whole point of methadone treatment--in fact, it plays right into the hands of the worst of the recovery movement, the ones who say you shouldn't be allowed to share at an NA meeting if you're in methadone treatment because "you're not really clean".
I let it go, though, and answered all her questions. She peppered them with observations about this culture, and how everyone wanted instant gratification, and how the younger generation has no concept of sacrificing their immediate pleasure for long-term good. Which I don't disagree with, entirely--but there was an undertone there of "aren't you weak-willed addicts lucky you have someone as wise as I am to tell you all these things?" And since I've spent the last week or so trying to convince myself that I'm not a bad person, that I have nothing to be ashamed of, it wasn't really the lecture I needed to hear.
And then... I told her that I had been using heroin along with the methadone, but that I wanted to stop heroin and would need an increase in my methadone dose so that I wouldn't get sick and go back to it. I told her I was currently at 50 mgs but needed to be at 80 or 90.
"Well," she said, "I can't just raise you up to that dosage...I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll give you ten mgs." Spoken in a tone of utmost benificence, the goddess bestowing her gift from on high.
"But...that's not going to keep me from getting sick," I said.
"Then you need to fight these cravings," she told me. "Think about what I said--about sacrifice, about strength of will...you need to fight through the discomfort..."
"I'm sorry," I said. "Have you ever experienced it?" Meaning withdrawal, and knowing the answer already.
She, of course, chose to interpret the question to mean "any sort of struggle". "More than you know," she said. "Not with the drug use, of course, but..." She rambled on for another five minutes or so about "personal strength" and "will power" and "sacrifice for the long term", and then she let me go out to the window and receive my splendid, generous 10-mg increase.
As the doctor gave the new orders to the dispensing nurse, my counselor walked by. When she heard "ten milligram increase", she looked startled, then shot me a sympathetic glance.
The doctor went back into her office with a new patient, and my counselor walked over. "Only ten milligrams?" she said.
"And a lecture about 'personal strength' and 'will power'," I added. "But..whatever."
"Come see me tomorrow, if it doesn't hold you," she said, "and I'll give you another ten." She looked sad, as though she felt like she'd failed me or something.
So, let's review. You're a doctor in a program which is supposed to make it possible for opiate addicts to stop doing their drug of choice, by substituting a long-acting version of that drug which does not get the user "high" but which, at the proper dosage, will keep them from experiencing withdrawal symptoms and cravings for the other drug. (Most users, by the time they enter this program, are only using their original drug to avoid the withdrawal symptoms anyway; any enjoyment heroin gave them has long ago disappeared.) The ultimate goal of this treatment is recovery from opiate addiction, either with the continuing aid of methadone or without it, and the resumption of a healthy lifestyle and mental well-being.
So someone please tell me, in the name of all that is holy:
WHY would you, as the doctor, refuse the patient's request for an increase in dosage which will keep them from having to pursue other drugs? Even though, since methadone does not get the patient high, there would be no harm in granting them this increase?
WHY would you imply that the ability to ignore the PHYSICAL pain of withdrawal is a measure of their "strength of character"? Especially when it's been shown that addiction is a medical problem, NOT a character flaw?
And WHY, particularly, would you convey this message to an already-vulnerable population, individuals who are trying to overcome habits which are oftentimes WORSENED by their feelings of shame and guilt, especially as it relates to their own perceived "weakness"?
It was only after I'd gotten in the car and was driving back toward work that I started getting really angry. I tell her "I went back to heroin because I was depressed" and she tells me "of course you were depressed; heroin MADE you depressed!" What the hell kind of circular thought process is that? I've been depressed since I was NINE, for god's sake; would she like to argue that maybe my childhood depression was caused by my parents slipping laudanum into my Ovaltine???
And where the hell does she get off telling me about my character? She knows exactly one thing about me: that I'm addicted to heroin. Obviously she feels that this knowledge is all she needs to judge me as “weak”. By extension, addiction equals weakness in her world-view, and if there's anyone LESS-qualified to minister to addicts than a person who holds that belief, I can't think of them off-hand. Seriously. And what's worse--this is coming from a DOCTOR, a specialist, who supposedly has access to all the best information and research about the causes and effects of addiction--yet she chooses to believe that all an addict needs to get through withdrawal is "will-power". I'm hazarding a guess here that her M.D is NOT in chemical dependency!!! Nor psychology, nor biochemistry...Autoproctology, perhaps.
I would love to see this woman's reaction if she went to the dentist to get a tooth drilled, and he told her: “I see this a lot in people of your generation. Tooth decay is a result of not flossing, which shows a weakness of character. You can overcome this weakness by refusing your urge to ask for Novocain—you can just hang on through the pain. But you can take a baby aspirin a couple of hours before you come to the office...”
I am going to get my 10-milligram increase tomorrow, and I am going to see tomorrow night whether or not it will be sufficient. I WANT to quit—I am ready to quit—but I have to be able to keep up my normal life and activities as I do it. Which means I can’t be too sick to go to work, or sick enough to be noticed by anyone else. I have to be taking a dose of methadone large enough to make me feel physically normal. I hope I’ll reach that dose tomorrow or Thursday at the latest; my counselor, at least, seems sympathetic and willing to help. There's a grievance procedure at this clinic, and I'm thinking I may file one against the doctor. But once I get stabilized, I am going to start lobbying for laws that will allow methadone to be prescribed like any other drug--by a doctor, dispensed by a pharmacist--just like any other kind of MEDICINE, without stigma. The existing system is just ridiculous. If an addict comes to a medical facility and says “I am ready to quit—I want very much to quit, and I believe I can do it--but there is one last obstacle in my way which you can remove by giving me a higher dose of a medication I’m already taking”—how is it beneficial for ANYONE, in ANY way, for that addict to be told “no”? But it happens every day.
There’s more to my anti-clinic-system rant; I’ll spare you for now, but I think I’ve found my cause.
You know, it's been a very long time since I've had a real good reason to get pissed off about anything. Maybe that's what's been missing in my life; I don't know. I know I do well when I've got something to crusade against. And man, have I got one now.
So to recap: I have gone back to the methadone clinic and gotten back on the program. However, at the same time, I was ALSO doing heroin, to the point that the amount of methadone I was taking (40 mg) wasn't keeping me from getting sick anymore.
I decided I wanted to stop heroin. That was always the plan, and so I've had several long conversations with myself, building my emotional strength up, telling myself that this is not a moral failing, that I'm still a good person, but that I need to get myself back on track and get back to doing the things that are important to me, personally. And I had myself pretty comfortable in that belief. But I knew that if I were to go into withdrawal, that my resolve would crumble and that would be that. I know my own ability to withstand withdrawal, and it is not strong. Anyone who has experienced opiate withdrawal can understand without me saying another word; to anyone who hasn't, I couldn't explain it if I wrote for days. It is a unique misery and defies description.
I also knew that the only thing that would stop that misery before it started was methadone, and that I had put myself in a position where I would need a serious increase in dosage before I could stop heroin. And here is where the clinic system comes into play. State regulations say that the maximum increase in dosage that can be given by a staff member (other than a doctor) is 10 mg at a time. I was at 40 mg and knew that I would need at least 80 mg, probably 90, before I could quit heroin without getting sick. (I discovered this on Sunday, when I tried to quit. It took my whole dose, the half-dose I had hoarded, and the last two methadone tablets from my old hoard for me to make it through the night.) So the counselor gave me a 10-mg increase yesterday, and told me that since I was scheduled to see the clinic's doctor today (a formality for all new intakes), there should be no trouble getting the other 30 mg increase--for an increase that big, only the doctor could sign off on it.
The doctor is only in on Tuesdays between 10:30 and noon. I took an early lunch and went in to the clinic for my appointment. She was a small, late-middle-aged Indian woman, with gray hair, glasses, and a dot on her forehead. She asked me about my history with heroin.
"Well," I told her, "I had six years clean, nearly, and a couple of months ago I experienced a major depression and went back to heroin." I told her I'd been battling depression for a long time.
And here's where I should have known things were gonna go south: "Yes," she said. "Many times, depression in drug users is caused by the fact of being on drugs."
"No," I said, "I don't think that's it. I mean, I was depressed long before I ever tried drugs—I was depressed way back in CHILDHOOD, really, when I look back."
She dismissed that and went back to filling out her forms. "So you were clean for six years...without methadone?"
"No," I told her. "I was on methadone for about eight years. I was clean for nearly six of those years."
"And how long were you without any opiates of any kind?" she asked.
"I was off the methadone for....about eight months, I guess, before this relapse."
Under "Clean Time" she wrote "8 mo." And I thought, WTF??? Are you saying that even though i wasn't doing any non-prescribed opiates, that still doesn't count for you as "clean"? That's pretty much contrary to the whole point of methadone treatment--in fact, it plays right into the hands of the worst of the recovery movement, the ones who say you shouldn't be allowed to share at an NA meeting if you're in methadone treatment because "you're not really clean".
I let it go, though, and answered all her questions. She peppered them with observations about this culture, and how everyone wanted instant gratification, and how the younger generation has no concept of sacrificing their immediate pleasure for long-term good. Which I don't disagree with, entirely--but there was an undertone there of "aren't you weak-willed addicts lucky you have someone as wise as I am to tell you all these things?" And since I've spent the last week or so trying to convince myself that I'm not a bad person, that I have nothing to be ashamed of, it wasn't really the lecture I needed to hear.
And then... I told her that I had been using heroin along with the methadone, but that I wanted to stop heroin and would need an increase in my methadone dose so that I wouldn't get sick and go back to it. I told her I was currently at 50 mgs but needed to be at 80 or 90.
"Well," she said, "I can't just raise you up to that dosage...I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll give you ten mgs." Spoken in a tone of utmost benificence, the goddess bestowing her gift from on high.
"But...that's not going to keep me from getting sick," I said.
"Then you need to fight these cravings," she told me. "Think about what I said--about sacrifice, about strength of will...you need to fight through the discomfort..."
"I'm sorry," I said. "Have you ever experienced it?" Meaning withdrawal, and knowing the answer already.
She, of course, chose to interpret the question to mean "any sort of struggle". "More than you know," she said. "Not with the drug use, of course, but..." She rambled on for another five minutes or so about "personal strength" and "will power" and "sacrifice for the long term", and then she let me go out to the window and receive my splendid, generous 10-mg increase.
As the doctor gave the new orders to the dispensing nurse, my counselor walked by. When she heard "ten milligram increase", she looked startled, then shot me a sympathetic glance.
The doctor went back into her office with a new patient, and my counselor walked over. "Only ten milligrams?" she said.
"And a lecture about 'personal strength' and 'will power'," I added. "But..whatever."
"Come see me tomorrow, if it doesn't hold you," she said, "and I'll give you another ten." She looked sad, as though she felt like she'd failed me or something.
So, let's review. You're a doctor in a program which is supposed to make it possible for opiate addicts to stop doing their drug of choice, by substituting a long-acting version of that drug which does not get the user "high" but which, at the proper dosage, will keep them from experiencing withdrawal symptoms and cravings for the other drug. (Most users, by the time they enter this program, are only using their original drug to avoid the withdrawal symptoms anyway; any enjoyment heroin gave them has long ago disappeared.) The ultimate goal of this treatment is recovery from opiate addiction, either with the continuing aid of methadone or without it, and the resumption of a healthy lifestyle and mental well-being.
So someone please tell me, in the name of all that is holy:
WHY would you, as the doctor, refuse the patient's request for an increase in dosage which will keep them from having to pursue other drugs? Even though, since methadone does not get the patient high, there would be no harm in granting them this increase?
WHY would you imply that the ability to ignore the PHYSICAL pain of withdrawal is a measure of their "strength of character"? Especially when it's been shown that addiction is a medical problem, NOT a character flaw?
And WHY, particularly, would you convey this message to an already-vulnerable population, individuals who are trying to overcome habits which are oftentimes WORSENED by their feelings of shame and guilt, especially as it relates to their own perceived "weakness"?
It was only after I'd gotten in the car and was driving back toward work that I started getting really angry. I tell her "I went back to heroin because I was depressed" and she tells me "of course you were depressed; heroin MADE you depressed!" What the hell kind of circular thought process is that? I've been depressed since I was NINE, for god's sake; would she like to argue that maybe my childhood depression was caused by my parents slipping laudanum into my Ovaltine???
And where the hell does she get off telling me about my character? She knows exactly one thing about me: that I'm addicted to heroin. Obviously she feels that this knowledge is all she needs to judge me as “weak”. By extension, addiction equals weakness in her world-view, and if there's anyone LESS-qualified to minister to addicts than a person who holds that belief, I can't think of them off-hand. Seriously. And what's worse--this is coming from a DOCTOR, a specialist, who supposedly has access to all the best information and research about the causes and effects of addiction--yet she chooses to believe that all an addict needs to get through withdrawal is "will-power". I'm hazarding a guess here that her M.D is NOT in chemical dependency!!! Nor psychology, nor biochemistry...Autoproctology, perhaps.
I would love to see this woman's reaction if she went to the dentist to get a tooth drilled, and he told her: “I see this a lot in people of your generation. Tooth decay is a result of not flossing, which shows a weakness of character. You can overcome this weakness by refusing your urge to ask for Novocain—you can just hang on through the pain. But you can take a baby aspirin a couple of hours before you come to the office...”
I am going to get my 10-milligram increase tomorrow, and I am going to see tomorrow night whether or not it will be sufficient. I WANT to quit—I am ready to quit—but I have to be able to keep up my normal life and activities as I do it. Which means I can’t be too sick to go to work, or sick enough to be noticed by anyone else. I have to be taking a dose of methadone large enough to make me feel physically normal. I hope I’ll reach that dose tomorrow or Thursday at the latest; my counselor, at least, seems sympathetic and willing to help. There's a grievance procedure at this clinic, and I'm thinking I may file one against the doctor. But once I get stabilized, I am going to start lobbying for laws that will allow methadone to be prescribed like any other drug--by a doctor, dispensed by a pharmacist--just like any other kind of MEDICINE, without stigma. The existing system is just ridiculous. If an addict comes to a medical facility and says “I am ready to quit—I want very much to quit, and I believe I can do it--but there is one last obstacle in my way which you can remove by giving me a higher dose of a medication I’m already taking”—how is it beneficial for ANYONE, in ANY way, for that addict to be told “no”? But it happens every day.
There’s more to my anti-clinic-system rant; I’ll spare you for now, but I think I’ve found my cause.
Thursday, December 8, 2005
I'm Not Exactly Dead...
...I've just had very little to say.
I'd like to say that none of the silence had anything to do with drugs, but...yeah, it sorta did. And it sorta had to do with work, and sorta had to do with way too much good reality TV. The one thing it DIDN'T have anything to do with was "getting something accomplished", which is, of course, the important thing.
I'm being pulled in two directions--the good and the not-so-good. (I'd call it "evil" but I've been trying so very hard to tell myself that I'm NOT a bad person, that this doesn't make me evil, and I don't want to undo what little progress I've made in that regard. Because somewhere, somehow, I don't believe myself when I say it.) I have a million things I want to do, and one that I wish I didn't want to do. And the "one" is winning out over the "million".
I went back to the methadone clinic and got on the program there. Methadone is the only thing I've ever found that has kept me clean for an extended period of time. I also had my caseworker at the clinic get me some referrals for counselling, which I have yet to call. I'm pretty sure what I'm doing with the heroin is self-medicating for depression, and even when I get clean that's still going to be there. So I have to do something about that.
But there's nothing much to talk about otherwise. Work is crazy, and I can't deal with my immediate boss's flakiness, but it's such an improvement over my last job that I can't even begin to complain. The house is the house, although it's cleaner than it's been in a long while; the cats are still cats, and LJ is still LJ. (In answer to a question Flash asked several posts ago: No, he does not know what I've been doing. He is not around enough to know. It's amazing to me that he doesn't know, but I'm glad he doesn't, since I'm fairly sure he'd leave if he knew.)
So--I'm okay. Not great, and not necessarily improving at quite the rate I'd like; but I'm okay. And I will be better.
But I'm really, really bored.
I'd like to say that none of the silence had anything to do with drugs, but...yeah, it sorta did. And it sorta had to do with work, and sorta had to do with way too much good reality TV. The one thing it DIDN'T have anything to do with was "getting something accomplished", which is, of course, the important thing.
I'm being pulled in two directions--the good and the not-so-good. (I'd call it "evil" but I've been trying so very hard to tell myself that I'm NOT a bad person, that this doesn't make me evil, and I don't want to undo what little progress I've made in that regard. Because somewhere, somehow, I don't believe myself when I say it.) I have a million things I want to do, and one that I wish I didn't want to do. And the "one" is winning out over the "million".
I went back to the methadone clinic and got on the program there. Methadone is the only thing I've ever found that has kept me clean for an extended period of time. I also had my caseworker at the clinic get me some referrals for counselling, which I have yet to call. I'm pretty sure what I'm doing with the heroin is self-medicating for depression, and even when I get clean that's still going to be there. So I have to do something about that.
But there's nothing much to talk about otherwise. Work is crazy, and I can't deal with my immediate boss's flakiness, but it's such an improvement over my last job that I can't even begin to complain. The house is the house, although it's cleaner than it's been in a long while; the cats are still cats, and LJ is still LJ. (In answer to a question Flash asked several posts ago: No, he does not know what I've been doing. He is not around enough to know. It's amazing to me that he doesn't know, but I'm glad he doesn't, since I'm fairly sure he'd leave if he knew.)
So--I'm okay. Not great, and not necessarily improving at quite the rate I'd like; but I'm okay. And I will be better.
But I'm really, really bored.
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