I'm a drug addict. I'm going to put it on my resume too. Once I settle on a font that is. I'm actually excited about this! What a cool thing to be! I'm like Jessie from Breaking Bad. Or Mark Renton from Trainspotting. Except a woman. Oh cool! So I'm Gia Carnagi! Damn, I'm hot. Though, I am alive. Nope, not her. I'm Sonja. Just Sonja. Oh, and I'm not that kind of drug addict anyway. If I were, I would've embellished and started with something more like this:
The seeping concrete walls surrounding me are closing in... the floor beneath me is miles away... Floating? I'm floating? What the fuck. I'm wedged in this dank corner clutching my knees, trying with all my might to rock as violently as I can. But my sallow, slick skin, ice cold to the touch, odd though as my temperature is, no doubt, somewhere near hells fury, or surface of the sun, won't allow me to break free into motion. So I just violently jerk... convulse... occasionally smashing my already battered skull against that dank and sticky wall behind me, reopening old wounds over, and over again. My hair matted in blood, bits of skull and brain matter, yet I crave more.
The grime beneath my hideous yellow nails has taken on an indescribable odor. The constant picking, scratching, clawing, at the walls, trying to escape my self made prison, has turned my manicured digits into 10 deadly saw blades. I don't dare peek at my toes.
There are no lights anywhere... wait... from beneath the mats of hair I see... is that? Really? Oh come on... A bare bulb dangling from some frayed wires? How cliche. If there's only going to be one bare hanging bulb, might as well cue the- drip.... drip... drip.... spoke too soon.
How long have I been here? What day is it? Where on earth did I buy this ridiculous Exorcist flavored nightgown? I suppose if I'm going to be stuck in a dark, dank, poorly lit, concrete whatever this is, floating no less, why not sport a dingy grey nighty from the 70's? God, I hope that bulb doesn't swing into whatever is dripping. Speaking of drips... I could really go for some tea right now.
Tea. Oh the healing powers of that poorly drawn Panda on the side of the box. Sort of reminds me of the gigantic handicapped people on the Arc trucks. I seriously doubt they're meant to scare me, but have you seen those gigantic eyeballs? Stop judging me! You're different alright. Leave me the fuck alone. Could be the drugs talking. Mmmmmm drugs.... what were we talking about?
Someone needs to turn on the fucking lights in here. Open some curtains. Good lord. What the hell am I wearing? Is it hot in here? Good Lord I'm cold. Can someone please explain why it rained INSIDE, and who parked the creepy ass ARC van in the damn driveway! I'm hungry. I'm hungry. I'm. need. food. now. am.
Yeah, embellished drug addict Sonja is just not working for me. Plus, my dogs keep barking so I can let them in out again. I can't keep it going. I'm also too busy wondering how many people I lost after using the word fuck the first, second, third.... times. Fuck 'em?
Back to it. Right. Now, what I am is a run of the mill, regular ole', class A (which is what exactly), prescription drug addict, and I was told I was going to be one before I ever took my first pill. If I could cue the spooky music, and pop a picture of Tangina up to scare everyone just then, it would've been awesome, but no, no fortune telling tricks here. I am finally in the general population of predicted outcomes, and I couldn't be happier to be an addict! Man that sounds fucked up. (How many am I up to?) I'm happy I'm going through withdrawal right now. I promise to tell you why that makes me happy, but I wouldn't be me if I didn't take us all for a ride while spinning my yarns now would I?
Back to food. You're supposed to make me well. Let's see. I shall have a
bowl filled with sharp razors, shards of glass, barbed wire, and
dynamite. Oh, and a little sumpthin' sumpthin' with an internal acid cleansing feature if you please. As a drug addict in withdrawal, this is now all the food groups. Burning acids. Flaming things. Razors. Barbed things. Glass shards. and Dynamite. They also all exit in exactly the same manner, exorcist style. I am lifted off my porcelain throne about 4 feet, screaming and writhing in pain, while my lower half rotates 360 degrees spewing evil. It's really quite a fantastic sight.
I watched the Gia Carnagi movie the other day. I've seen Trainspotting. I've seen other movies that also have unmemorable titles and unmemorable actors going through withdrawal. Now, granted, those are all about heroin, or meth, or other kinds of drugs. Not vitamin D withdrawal. Or, Advil withdrawal. Though that would be pretty damn funny in my opinion. Fish Oil supplement withdrawal. Neosporin withdrawal. Flintstone gummy vitamin withdrawal. HA! Wild, maniacal toddlers screeching "GIVE ME MY DINO!!" in Satan's voice! Ok, I'll quit while I'm ahead.
OxyContin withdrawal. That's what I have. Between having been born with iron clad genes susceptible to only the highest doses of pain meds, and having a constitution that is, without fail, the exception to every rule, I've made my rounds with the medicines, learning what they do for me, or to me, tattooed the ones that kill me on my person, only to end my OxyContin journey in my own version of the Exorcist.
When being a Sonja, one has to do things a particular way. This typically consists of 1. The Hard Way. 2. The Roundabout Way 3. The Long Way 4. The Road Less Traveled, and my most favorite, and ironic 5. The Way that No Other Doctor has Ever Seen Before Ever, aka, The Exception to Every Rule Way. I am the 1%. I am the exception to the rule. So when my doctor and I decided that taking OxyContin for a few years was long enough, and time to stop, I thought it was funny when I was handed an informational packet roughly titled: "What to Expect While You're Drug Addicted Body Goes Bat Shit Crazy Trying to Convince You That You've Made the Worst Decision of Your Life and Get You Back On the Drugs"
Day one: Olympic bathroom racing trials begin! I've never
wished for a full fledged adult diaper any harder in my life. Maybe I
should ask for those for my birthday. I've already shit 14 pounds of Sonja out already, who knows
how much more could go by then! I could write a weight loss book maybe? I
gotta remember to put paper and pencils in the bathroom. If I ever get
to leave this place to go grab some that is.
Day two: Ok Sonja. I'll make me a bargain. You withdrawal nicely, and I'll feed you.
Day three: Had the funny idea that if I left the bathroom I might actually be able to exist in the rest of the house. Boy was that a good joke. Forgot legs lost feeling days ago. Swear stomach laughed at me while I crumpled in slow mo to the ground.
Day four: Had bed installed around throne in bathroom. Husband asked me if I was hungry. Had not realized I could breathe fire and cry simultaneously. Must remember to replace burnt bathroom door.
Day five: I can't believe it took me this long to think of counting the tiles! 98. Ok, that was lame.
Day six: Still in the bathroom. Reasoning with myself now. Here is an excerpt of
my conversation with me: Taking drugs for me is like playing Russian
Roulette. There is absolutely no way of knowing if I'll be allergic to
the shit, until I've already shot myself. The really hilarious part is,
when you, my body, randomly decide when you've had enough and put
itchy spots on me, wake me up elsewhere, make my heart exercise with me
having to do any pesky work, that kind of junk. Oh, and death. That's a
fun one too. The longer I take this, the more likely I am of
shooting myself. Oxy bitch- you gotta go. Drank a glass of water. My body retaliated for the self talk and turned it into battery acid.
Day seven: Half expected angelic sunbeams and sparkles to shine down on my bed throne, lift me up (unlike the demonic lifting and spinning I've already been experiencing) and sprinkle (so tempted to say angel dust here) magic over me while harps, french horns, and choirs sing my praises for a job well done. Instead, my ass gave a rousing fffffrrrrumph with more toxic liquids spurting in time to the music in my head.
The good thing that's been coming from my time as a recovering drug addict is the weight loss of course. 14 pounds in a week. Exorcist style- and not out of my mouth. If I were a bigger person, I'd say I wouldn't wish this kind of pain on anyone. But, who am I kidding? I'm 14 pounds smaller, so I'm no longer a bigger person. Loopholes. I love them.
But, I did promise to tell you why I am happy to have withdrawal. I'm happy because I'm always the exception to the rule. For once in my life, I'm the rule. I am right there, along with everyone else. I'm the same. It leaves me with a glimmer of hope that there are other long sticks I'll draw as opposed to always pulling the short stick.
Be well everyone. Next time you see me, I'll be drug free, back pain free, out of the bathroom, and showing off my 'normal'.
