The alarm goes off at 6:15 a.m., but I’ve already been half awake, tossing and turning for the last couple of hours. I slither out of bed, turn on the shower and stand in the mirror in my usual morning daze.
I don’t look into the mirror, why bother? My soul is gone, and I can’t stand the person looking back at me. Before brushing my teeth, I open the drawer and without hesitation, quick as I can, I grab a couple of pills. In one motion I swallow the “relief” and guzzle some water. I take a peak at the bottle. Oh no. I just had 120 last week, now I’m down to 20 or so. My heart begins pounding, my mind begins to race, and my entire body begins to sweat. Of course, I’ve been sweating for several hours because while I slept my withdrawals have begun. As I step into the shower I begin to wonder, where will I get more this time? Here we go again.
I brace myself for the pain. I slowly get into the water and each drop is like a bullet at close range hitting my skin. Do I wash my hair? I know that is going to hurt even worse. I know this comes from the pain pills. What I will later learn is the pain comes from the lack of endorphins my body has stopped making. My achy body is an open canvas of raw nerves. I hurry through the shower, hoping the pills will kick in. As I dry off, I find myself fishing for more pills. I know I shouldn’t. I’m running low fast. But, as always, I can’t stop myself. This time, I grab two Norco (a pain pill) and one Soma (a muscle relaxer). I have to go to work soon so I don’t want to be too high. Oh, what the heck, one more muscle relaxer won’t hurt.
The alarm goes off at 6:15 a.m., but I’ve already been half awake, tossing and turning for the last couple of hours. I slither out of bed, turn on the shower and stand in the mirror in my usual morning daze.
I don’t look into the mirror, why bother? My soul is gone, and I can’t stand the person looking back at me. Before brushing my teeth, I open the drawer and without hesitation, quick as I can, I grab a couple of pills. In one motion I swallow the “relief” and guzzle some water. I take a peak at the bottle. Oh no. I just had 120 last week, now I’m down to 20 or so. My heart begins pounding, my mind begins to race, and my entire body begins to sweat. Of course, I’ve been sweating for several hours because while I slept my withdrawals have begun. As I step into the shower I begin to wonder, where will I get more this time? Here we go again.
I brace myself for the pain. I slowly get into the water and each drop is like a bullet at close range hitting my skin. Do I wash my hair? I know that is going to hurt even worse. I know this comes from the pain pills. What I will later learn is the pain comes from the lack of endorphins my body has stopped making. My achy body is an open canvas of raw nerves. I hurry through the shower, hoping the pills will kick in. As I dry off, I find myself fishing for more pills. I know I shouldn’t. I’m running low fast. But, as always, I can’t stop myself. This time, I grab two Norco (a pain pill) and one Soma (a muscle relaxer). I have to go to work soon so I don’t want to be too high. Oh, what the heck, one more muscle relaxer won’t hurt.
As many pills as I take these days, this morning is no big deal at all.
Immediately after dropping off the little one, my brain and heart both go into overdrive. I take a couple more pills. At this rate, I’ll be out by tomorrow. I get to work and know I have a few hours to figure out and go with a plan. First, I call a couple of friends that I buy pills from. No luck. Everyone is out. So I work for a while, but the entire time I’m consumed with “what am I going to do?” I get mad at myself. Again. This time was supposed to be different. (Like every time.) I just got 120 Norco and 120 Somas from the doctor last week and where had they all gone?
No time to dwell on that now. I dread it but already know what I have to do. I CAN’T go to the emergency room. I was there just a couple of weeks ago. I let my boss know I’ll be taking a long lunch. “I have a doctor appointment I forgot about,” or “one of my kids does,” or “someone is sick.” Whatever lie I feel will work this time. As I leave the school (yes, did I mention I’m a teacher?) again I feel awful. I hate lying. I hate lying to my boss who is so kind and trusting. I hate lying to my co-workers. They’re all concerned about whatever lie I’ve concocted. I hate myself. I hate who I’ve become. I hate the way I feel — emotionally hollow, physically sick, psychologically spent.
As I drive, I pop a couple of pills. Why not, I tell myself. I’ll get more somehow. I look into the bottle and wish it were full. Matter of fact, I’ve spent way too much time wishing and dreaming the pills were endless. Why not? I’m in legitimate pain! My whole body hurts! My head aches, my lower back is shot, and literally my entire body feels like I’m 75 rather than the 39 that I am.
I will later learn a large portion of these pains stems from the pills. Go figure. Who knew? You mean taking 20 to 30 pills a day will harm not help you? Hmmm.
I limp into an urgent care facility. Here’s where the show begins. I slowly, bent over, with a pathetic grimace on my face, make my way to the receptionist. I tell her I’ve pulled my back (again) and must see a doctor immediately. She looks at me with distaste (or at least that’s what my guilty conscience tells me) and tells me to take a seat. Now I wait, wait, wait, while praying to the God I’ve long since stopped believing in, “Please, please let this go smoothly.” I get called back and again I put on my best “I’m in so much pain” show. The doctor comes in after some time and amuses me with the usual questions. Scale of one to 10, how bad? When did it happen? How? Checks my back, my knees and finally says, “Well, Mrs. Kennedy, I cannot give you any narcotics. Records show you have been here too many times for that. I’m happy to give you ibuprofen though.” I feel myself starting to sweat. Everywhere. Anger, frustration and madness build up inside of me. I find myself practically begging for something, anything to help the pain! Nope. She’s not going to budge. As I leave I grumble to myself, all the while thinking about who I’ll have to hit up next.
I get back to school and paint a smile on my face and get to work. Pretending to enjoy my day. To an extent, I do. I have my lifelong dream job and adore the children. However, all day, each thought I have is consumed and overtaken with getting more pills.
After work, I go home, make dinner and hurriedly check the mail. Luckily I get home before my husband who has no idea how bad it’s gotten. I check the mail because I have hospital and doctor bills coming in almost daily. Again, sickness, sadness and regret.
I leave the house and know what I have to do. I don’t want to, God , I don’t want to. I hate doing this. All of it. Yet I find myself behind the wheel on autopilot. “What are you doing?! How did it get to this? How did it get this bad?!” All of these things go over and over in my mind. I pull in, find what could be “My spot ” in the parking lot. I’m so embarrassed, so ashamed. It has to be done though. I cannot not have these pills. OK, show time. And I walk through the doors at the emergency room.
That story is no exaggeration. It was my life. I’ve been clean for six months now. It’s a terrible, lonely, sick place. I was surrounded by love and loved ones but lonely and hollow. At the time, I never dreamed I’d feel the way I do today. I’m actually living, laughing and loving again. That’s not to say life is perfect, I have a lot to clean up. But there is nothing you can throw at me today that compares to the hell I was in then. If you’re reading this and you can’t believe you can get help. Believe it. I promise you, it gets so much better. If you’re reading this and you know someone with the problem, understand a couple of things: They’re probably worse than you even know. And they can get help and truly get better.
Love them. Because right now, they don’t love themselves.
Before I got better I hoped every single night that I’d wake up the next morning. “How many pills can one body take,” I’d wonder. I was so afraid to close my eyes for fear they’d never open. Luckily, I made it. I’m alive, awake and healing.
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