Perhaps trying to cut my morphine from 200mg/day to 60 in one giant overly optimistic leap was a bit (ridiculously) impractical, but at the very least it gave me a good base on what I can handle, and expect.
The idea was to only take it when I started to feel sick – the muscle-ache, lethargic – the stomach cramps and an increasing loathing of everything and anything – person, car, street sign, sidewalk, shoelace, weather – anything that wasn’t unconciousness, where even bed is pure hell if you can’t sleep. Opiate withdrawals take a language that I don’t have right now to describe, and I still remember almost every minute of those four days twenty-two years ago, with my right leg entirely encased in a cast after breaking the tibia & fibula in a skateboardding accident. I had Angels around me then, Courtenay, a lover, & Rosanna, an ex-girlfriends mother, who did what they could to help me through it and after, respectively… but I digress. Juuuust at the beginning of, and a little after that hell, I would take another dose, and see how quickly I could get off of the morphine, end this two and a half year emotional emptiness. I think I was a bit idealistic, as there is just no functioning in the real world and taking care of the things I need to do that way – but I can come close without being so drastic.
I was talking to someone in a support group for the Hep-C treatment I’m on, and he has stretched it out over nine months so far. Nine fucking months. To hell with that. I’m going to do it as hard and fast – and rational – as I can.
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At a friends house tonight, offering simply a body & support as he goes through some emotional shit with his living situation (another big fight with the room-mate this morning) & is now in the process of moving again. Really not doing anything except being here, but it matters to him, and I’m glad that I can be. It certainly comes with benefits as well though, because as much as I absolutely love the sanctuary of my bed, he’s got one of those posture-pedic mattresses (or whatever – where you jump on the bed and the wine doesn’t spill on the other side of it in the commercial) that literally cost as much as my motorhome – something he got while at his last job making 80,000/yr, before his life was drastically changed as well by our shared illness.
Still, we keep on fighting, doing what we can, and knowing how fragile things are, appreciating every second.
Looking forward to being off the morphine – and though I must admit I’m vaguely tempted to just have it over in those 4-5 days, go through the hell and be done with it… I’m incredibly happy that I don’t need to. I want me back.
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I must admit I don;t really like writing about this; or more appropriately, having it read. I know that there are those out there who, as good as they are, as kind, sweet, or giving, can’t help but look at me differently – not necessarily judging by any means, but – just differently. They seperate themselves, step away, do all but cease contact – usually unconsciously I would like to imagine, but it happens, and frequently. I remember clearly being told by a friend a very long time ago to be incredibly careful of who I told, that this, and worse, would happen – it has and it does. Still, it is a part of me, and has been for over half of my life – so I write what I will and keep to the commitment I made to myself when I first began keeping online journals that I would do my best to be as honest as possible with myself and any readers – and let the cards fall where they will.