Over the past week, I have learned that the agony of withdrawal from opiate drugs runs deep into every crevice of a person's being. Let me tell you about that.
When you are in withdrawal, it is the very darkest night of your soul. Nothing is safe, nothing is right, and everything hurts. Lights are too loud, sounds are too bright, and yet, everything is black. You can't remember the last time you felt good, and you worry that you will never feel good again. You're sick to your stomach, your bowels revolt against you and you break into tears for no reason at all. It depletes every part of you. It's like the worst hangover you ever had combined with the worst fear you've ever felt, and it is unrelenting. No matter how many blankets you wrap yourself in, the chills come, and no matter how you claw at yourself to be free of your clothing, the fever burns. It doesn't matter what you tell yourself about how things will be okay again, that your body is just reacting to the absence of something it had grown accustomed to, it doesn't help. You're just terrified. Of everything. Your heart pounds as if to break free from your chest. Then, the depression hits. Nothing anyone says helps. Even pure love seems to bounce right off the barrier it builds between you and everything that matters. And even if you know that right there, within your reach, is a beautiful world glittering with possibilities, you can't touch it. You can't feel it. It is separate from you, somehow, and you are separate from it, and that distance is horrifyingly intimate, sickly sinking beneath your resolve. It seeks to break you. It does break you. You can't come out of this without being broken. It's spiritual and biological terrorism setting off a bomb in your soul.
Most people feel cravings for the drug. Strangely, I didn't felt much in the way of drug cravings, and I am thankful for that. I think it is because I put the painkillers in the category of a poison that isn't needed. Sure, I know that if I had a Percocet in my hand right now and could take it, it would make me feel better for a little while, but it's not worth it.
You know, since I've been on those damn things, all I've been doing is sitting around feeling... okay. And "okay" is just what it is. It's not good, it's not bad, it's not inspiring, it's not glad or sad. It's just okay. I became content with "okay," because I feared the pain, because I was sick of feeling twice my age because of the pain in my spine and shoulder. I didn't do anything with that "okay" feeling. Didn't draw, didn't write, didn't go out on my own for a whole year, I realize now. But part of me knew the whole time that this wasn't a normal "okay." Like I was just barely keeping a lid on something disgusting that threatened to crawl out if I forgot to pop my pill at the right time.
There were some days that I wanted to feel better than "okay," and those days, I took more than I should have. You see, opiates do a wonderful job of killing anxiety, and anxiety is something I have suffered from my whole life. On days when I couldn't be arsed to deal with the anxiety on top of the pain, I took more. There were a lot of those days in December. "Oh, the holidays are here. Can't risk feeling shitty for this or that event. Better fortify myself." And before I knew it, my pills were dwindling fast.
Then came the kidney stone. Here I am, faced with this new, even worse pain, caught with my pants down and low on my pills. I go to the hospital. They load me up with Dilaudid and Toradol, and because of my tolerance, it only takes the edge off. The first time I go in, they don't give me a prescription for anything for the pain, since my chart says I'm already on painkillers. I have a pain contract with my doctor that states I can't get prescription opiates from any other source. The next day, back in the ER with even worse pain and blood in my urine, they finally gave me the prescription.
Mercifully, the stone passed quickly, but there were consequences. As soon as my pain doctor caught wind of my ER visit, he had his receptionist call me and tell me he would not be prescribing any more opiates for me. I was left with fifteen, half-the-usual-strength Percocet to try to wean myself off. I took the last dose on Monday, January 5. Then I plunged into the excruciating process of withdrawal, as described previously.
I was lucky. I had my husband near the entire time, squeezing my hand and holding me close even if it felt, to me, like he was miles away. I had friends' support, online and in real life. One particular friend was extraordinary. She had gone through opiate withdrawal herself, and she gave me advice about how to deal with it, and talked me down from the terror, and made me laugh when otherwise I would have been collapsed in a heap of bitter tears.
I would be remiss if I did not mention my dear Loki, who was right behind me through it all. He asked for an offering. At the time, I told him that all I had left to give were my tears. "Then give me those, child," he said, and so I did.
As of this writing I have made it six days. 96 hours is the magic number for opiates to get out of your system, so I am past the worst part, but I cried for a long time this morning. I still don't feel like myself. In fact, I'm not even sure how to feel like myself again. Writing this has helped. Listening to music I used to listen to all the time before I was on the meds is starting to bring me around and remember who Morgan is. She's pretty awesome, really, but she's been in hiding. I can't hold it against her. Me. I can't blame myself or shame myself for this. I was never meant to be on the poison for as long as I was. I was supposed to have surgery. I was supposed to get help stepping down from the drugs. The system failed me. It's time to find some other way to deal with the pain. It's time to call the chiropractor, the holistic practitioner, the acupuncturist, the witch doctor, or whoever can help me manage my pain without those gods-forsaken drugs. It isn't worth it, losing so much of myself, for so long.
I am writing about this all as if it is in the past-tense, when, in reality, I will still probably feel the effects of withdrawal for some time. I don't like to think about that. At this moment, I am feeling as good as I can feel, given the circumstances. I remind myself that I have been through worse, and with far fewer resources in terms of friends and support. Lying here in bed, typing on my laptop, I can imagine myself going out to the coffee house again, writing stories, drawing, playing games, roleplaying... all the stuff I used to enjoy. It may be cold as balls outside, but I can imagine the spring. I can imagine putting myself back together again, and imagination is the mother of invention. I will invent myself again, and be stronger for it.
No comments:
Post a Comment