Binge
I behaved badly.
Because Grey presented at the ER with a bad headache, the doctor prescribed him Norco (hydrocodone) in addition to the blood pressure medication. Seventeen hydrocodone pills. He wasn't even going to fill the Norco prescription, as he has a sensitive stomach and thought it would probably make him throw up. But I volunteered to go get the prescriptions and the blood pressure monitor he needed, and of course I filled the Norco, and over the next two and a half days, while caring for him, I consumed all seventeen pills.
Grey didn't want the pills and didn't mind my taking them. He knows some of my history with prescription and street painkillers, but not the gory details, unless he has sought them out himself (between this journal, especially the entries for 2006-2007, and my essay "Nobody's Fault But Mine," they are pretty much public record). I enjoyed my binge: the unusual experience of being in no pain at all, the slow sweetness of sex on opiates, the damned lovely reptile-brain high. I didn't make myself sick or do anything particularly irresponsible, and I don't feel the urge to seek out any more narcotics. I'm still not too pleased with myself, though. I binged on a drug I know I cannot take responsibly, a drug I haven't touched in a long time, a drug I thought I'd overcome my taste for. A drug I had prayed to overcome my taste for. But the reptile brain never forgets.
In more important news, the blood pressure medication seems to be helping; Grey's reading this morning was almost normal. Drugs are good things. It's not their fault that some people abuse them.
Now I have to get through a holiday with one family member who's deeply disappointed in me and another who may not be here next year. Merry fuckin Christmas, hope you get a pony.
Because Grey presented at the ER with a bad headache, the doctor prescribed him Norco (hydrocodone) in addition to the blood pressure medication. Seventeen hydrocodone pills. He wasn't even going to fill the Norco prescription, as he has a sensitive stomach and thought it would probably make him throw up. But I volunteered to go get the prescriptions and the blood pressure monitor he needed, and of course I filled the Norco, and over the next two and a half days, while caring for him, I consumed all seventeen pills.
Grey didn't want the pills and didn't mind my taking them. He knows some of my history with prescription and street painkillers, but not the gory details, unless he has sought them out himself (between this journal, especially the entries for 2006-2007, and my essay "Nobody's Fault But Mine," they are pretty much public record). I enjoyed my binge: the unusual experience of being in no pain at all, the slow sweetness of sex on opiates, the damned lovely reptile-brain high. I didn't make myself sick or do anything particularly irresponsible, and I don't feel the urge to seek out any more narcotics. I'm still not too pleased with myself, though. I binged on a drug I know I cannot take responsibly, a drug I haven't touched in a long time, a drug I thought I'd overcome my taste for. A drug I had prayed to overcome my taste for. But the reptile brain never forgets.
In more important news, the blood pressure medication seems to be helping; Grey's reading this morning was almost normal. Drugs are good things. It's not their fault that some people abuse them.
Now I have to get through a holiday with one family member who's deeply disappointed in me and another who may not be here next year. Merry fuckin Christmas, hope you get a pony.
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