A celebration upon completion
I love my vicodin -- it loves me. For years I have struggled with addiction... although for the first two years, I didn't call it "addiction"... it was "necessary". The physical pain had eventually gone away, but the pain inside created dents and cuts, and vicodin was my stitches. The cuts were not deep... but then again, isn't it the paper cuts that hurt the worst? My 'hillbilly heroin' made life a breeze; pain drifted away with each head-nodding high. With my new problems -- I was running a marathon but Vic couldn't keep up. Along the way, I passed a doctor and he said, "You look like death. Let me take away the pain..." He handed me a bottle; through the orange glossy surface sat a cotton white field of dreams -- Percocet became my new love. Soon, all my troubles disappeared into the background once again and I could fly. No longer did it matter that Steph had left me... that Uriah had died... that my friends were no longer treading water with me... I had died a long time ago, but was reborn; invincible. When all the monsters had come out from under the bed, they carried with them a message... "You must resist the pill's evil ways. When you swallow your twenty-five dream pills a day, they go inside and eat at your insides... eat at your brain... and they look to bring the devil called 'Death' with them." How could I believe the monsters; they were out to ruin my life. I refused to say 'goodbye' to my only love... the high. Then the bad man came and stole the bottle as I slept. I was now faced to deal with the reality of my life. I refused to live in the world of truth. As I sat on a bench, contemplating the answer to my demise, a woman came along and said, "No more worries... here's the heaven to your hell." Methadone had lifted me back up where I belonged. A bittersweet painkiller -- it could make me or break me... the 2nd cousin of Vic and Perc. But with every summer comes an icy winter; I had sobered up... and along with it, came the worst feeling in the world -- reality. A horrid, deathly feeling came with it -- the 'white flu'. My limbs, my body was seriously fucking pissed that I had not given it its daily dose of euphoria. I became ill; convulsing, heaving, shivering, freezing -- not more than a few minutes later; panicking, crying, sweating... dying. Death was more welcoming than the fury of being in withdrawls.
After weeks of rehab; after unbearable days of detoxing; after NA and endlessly 'working the program'... I'd love to say I learned my lesson. But I just can't close the door on that part of my life -- when the sad, harsh, blinding reality sets in... I run back to the euphoric high that is the answer to my prayers -- the Bonnie to my Clyde. They will always be there for me... they do not discriminate... never judge.
I wish I could say 'no'. But... while they've given me life, I'm sure they'll eventually be my demise.
After weeks of rehab; after unbearable days of detoxing; after NA and endlessly 'working the program'... I'd love to say I learned my lesson. But I just can't close the door on that part of my life -- when the sad, harsh, blinding reality sets in... I run back to the euphoric high that is the answer to my prayers -- the Bonnie to my Clyde. They will always be there for me... they do not discriminate... never judge.
I wish I could say 'no'. But... while they've given me life, I'm sure they'll eventually be my demise.