An Uncomfortable Realization

My Mom was the one who turned me on to pills, sweet little lady. It had to be about twenty years ago now, the first time she hooked me up with Vicodin for a headache. It didn’t take long for me to realize how well one of these little white pills - broken in two to circumvent the time-lapse effects of the outer coating of course – went with a heavy pour of red wine. I can still recall the first time I experienced this combination fully: lying on the couch under a blanket, feet in the air, the Godfather on television, my brother sitting beside me in a plush armchair in a similar state of relaxation. It is no exaggeration to say that it was a blissful moment, filled with inner peace, serenity, fraternity.

It also didn’t take her long to realize that, from time to time, I liked to help myself to her stash. I think my brother may have pilfered on occasion as well, because those things flew out of her closet like so many newborn moths. Once she figured it out, they were more difficult to procure. She’s a wily one, and hid them well.

For the longest time this was where my relationship with pills settled: I’d pop one whenever I could get my hands on it, which was infrequently. So there was no big problem there. And anyway, I was busy with several other drugs which featured more prominently in my life.

But then, about three years ago, I came across an excellent and regular supply of Norcos, which I soon learned were even more warmth-giving and oblivion-inducing (especially in combination with several drinks) than their weaker cousin which had brought me into the world of Opioids. I learned that the yellows were the best and the ones speckled with red were full of acetaminophen and less powerful. I generally – but not always – had a supply available in the medicine cabinet and a few in my desk at work, just in case. Still, I took them only semi-regularly, perhaps twice or three times a week. I felt completely in control of the situation, and I guess you could say I was.

About a year ago, however, I met my match in the form of these tiny green fifteen milligram oxycodones. Through procedures and circumstances I shall not describe for you here, I fell backasswards into a supply of about a hundred of these little buddies. At first, a mere half a pill would have me tingling from head to toe almost immediately upon swallowing. The effect would last for hours on end and would culminate in the most wonderful, dreamless sleep. Soon however, I needed a full pill to get the desired effect. Ultimately, I needed one and a half to get to that special place.

Having so many pills on hand it became more difficult to hold myself back from taking them every day. I would go on a spree of five or six days in a row popping my dear Oxys. I would then take a day or two off and pat myself on the back for showing so much restraint. Finally and mercifully, I ran out of the little buggers, thanks in no small part to the proverbial "little help from my friends." (Who always gave my supply the highest praise.) Knowing with great certainty that I was increasingly descending down into the vortex, I was glad to see them go.

In the succeeding days, however, the most interesting and unpleasant thing happened. I would sweat profusely in my sleep and awake to a cold, saturated pillow. I was extremely irritable during the day. My concentration was at its nadir. And more than anything, I had a stomach ache and diarrhea that lasted over two weeks. Sure enough, I looked up the symptoms of physical opioid addiction and what did I find? All of the above.

PHYSICAL ADDICTION. The phrase rang through my mind like the tolling of a funeral bell. Is there anything more inconsistent with the idea of the functioning addict than physical addiction? I was face to face with a concept that was truly foreign to me and the questions were unavoidably vexed: had I reached my end, the point of no return, was the functioning addict now no more than a mere addict? Was the time to finish the experiment at hand?

After a five week run cold turkey the answer presented itself as it always has and I fear always will: of course not. I’m in charge of my own existence. I’m the functioning addict. My will be done.

And predictably, after a while I started popping Norcos occasionally once again. But don’t worry: I’ve got it all under control.