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TITLE (EDIT)
Always A Happy Ending? |
DESCRIPTION
Addiction is hell.
[1,395 words] |
AUTHOR
Wasted Time |
ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
-
[January 2006] |
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (2)
The Cabin, Part 2 (Short Stories) A scene showing two old lovers at home, with more parts to come, including part 1. [1,002 words] [Romance]
The Soul Alone (Poetry) - [152 words] [Relationships]
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Always A Happy Ending?
Wasted Time
Sometimes, there is no happy ending. That thought occurred to me on many occasions, especially at the end of a particularly heavy hydro binge. How depressing could this life get, and how often would I bring myself down this road? The time would come, I knew, when I would not be able to get back up again, but it mattered not. Hydro time, I think again, and pop 50 milligrams.
Do you know what I mean by hydro? Many people don’t, so I offer the following explanation: hydro is hell. What does that mean, you ask? I mean that every time one pill of hydro enters my mouth, I screw something up. Maybe not that day, maybe not that week, maybe not even that month. But, inevitably, somewhere down the line, something is going to fall apart. Hydrocodone has been my nemesis for many a year and I suspect it will be for a lifetime to come.
As the pills begin to take effect, I think that the high will come soon, but I know that’s a myth. The high has been gone for years, and now the pills only calm the shaking and the headaches and the shits. How does a life get to this point? How could I sabotage the very thing that I take the pills to regain? It’s a vicious cycle. Feel awful, take a pill, feel awful, take a pill, sleep, feel awful. My thinking is confused now, but sleep won’t come. What a bitch.
Hoping that the pills would at least make me think about good things and not the awful, I am again disappointed. It’s always like that. I try not to concentrate on the multitude of opportunities and relationships I have wasted over the years, and I think the pills will help me not to go there, but as always, I do go there. Teary-eyed, I sip Jack Daniel black label and pray for sleep. Again, it doesn’t come.
Although I am not high, my mind begins to drift. I wonder what would have happened had I stayed the course in my college days. Would I have been a doctor? Sure, that would have been great. Write my own prescriptions. Talk about a dead end. Yeah, jail or death would have been the outcome to that one. What about a pharmacist? Sure thing, drughead. Your own pharmacy at your disposal. I wonder if the outcome would have been prison, where I could have been Bubba’s “good” friend, or whether my poor parents would have had to bury me at the ripe old age of twenty-five. I laugh, but nothing’s funny except the expression on my wrinkled old face.
How many have I taken today? It’s hard to remember with the valium and xanax that I add to the mix. I am going to have to start writing this stuff down. Crap, was it 15 or 18? The difference is significant only to my tired old mind. I guess I think I can keep from overdosing by counting. Shit, I can’t even count to ten in this shape. How depressing for a man who loves all things math.
I loved the woman. How did I go from math to the woman? How scatterbrained is that? Oh well, as long as I’m thinking of her, I might as well let it play on out.
How she put up with this mess for as long as she did, I’ll never know. Often, I go back and try to see where my thinking was at the time I decided to buy that large cache of pills. Yeah, I think about it all the time. Can I come up with an answer? Hell no. It’s all about the addiction. It’s all about the insanity. Repeating the same behavior over and over again, expecting a different outcome. Why does addiction make me do that? Why would I ever think that taking a pill, or a drink, or a toke, or a snort is going to lead to anything except misery? Why the hell can’t I sleep?
I don’t mean to do the things I do. Really, I don’t. I have tried and tried and tried and tried again to stop doing these self destructive things. My God, I have tried AA and NA and drug treatment and alcohol treatment and cold turkey and church and prayer and all sorts of self help crap. There have been times where I went for years without any mind-altering substance at all. Then when things start to go fairly well, I am back to the pills. Insane? Sure it is. Can I stop doing it? Why hell no.
It’s cold in here. Why is it so cold? Maybe it’s the pills, dumbass, I chastise. Take a few more. It’s been 3 hours. Surely enough of the Tylenol has left my system to be able to take some more without further ruination of the liver. If there is any liver left. What about my poor kidneys? Don’t want to think about it. Cover up and let it go.
I’m so tired now that surely sleep will come. Trying to doze off is like taking a bone from a pit bull. Maybe if I set the clock on the TV to keep it from blinking it would help. All I see when I shut my eyes is 12:00—12:00—12:00—12:00—12:00 over and over again. How lazy is that? Is this what hitting bottom means? When a person is too damn lazy to set a clock, it has to be rock bottom. I look out the window to try to gauge what time it is, but there is no moon tonight. I turn on the little TV, but get no reception. The cable has been gone for awhile, and local channels only come in when the wind is right. Oh well.
Somewhere in my head, I hear the voice of reason or insanity, I just can’t tell which anymore, and I wonder if it’s right. Go for a drive to clear your mind is what it says. Before I think about it anymore, and talk myself out of it, I turn the key in the ignition. I love this car, I think, and immediately chuckle, knowing just how sick my thinking is. I wash down a couple of valium and proceed to pull out into the street.
I don’t really know where I’m going, as is often the case when I get in the car. I just drive and drive and drive. I just hope this helps me to sleep. And I don’t really believe that it will. The whiskey and the cigarette are my friend and at this point I don’t care very much what will come with the daylight. All I know is that I am tired and that I don’t really like to listen to Garth Brooks. I think about what I would like to hear and put some Pink Floyd on the CD player. “Animals” is the name of the disc, and it soothes me, as I continue to drive.
Awakened by the first rays of sunshine, I feel cold, hungry, and disoriented. Before I even look around to see where I am, I wash down another 50 milligrams of hydro with what’s left of the whisky. Don’t blame me. I’m shaking my ass off.
Then I look around, and seeing where I am, I start to cry. I’ve been here many times before, and, just as the insanity keeps me coming back to the pills, it keeps me coming back to this place. Why oh why do I get in the car and drive when I know somewhere in the back of my mind that I will end up here? How did I get here? Who knows? The memory bank is blank, as usual.
Through the early morning fog, I look to the east and reread the lines I have read so many times before: “Loving Mother and Wife” Born 4/7/1966 Died 10/10/2004 and “Beloved Child” Born 12/12/2002 Died 10/10/2004 and “Father” Born 5/4/1965 Died ______. Again, I wonder why I didn’t put a description of “Asshole” beside “Father.
I apologize again to them both and cuss the pills one more time. And wonder how I will get the money order to pay the UPS man for the pills I have coming today. And in the distance “Animals” plays on and I think that sometimes there is no happy ending.
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COPYRIGHT NOTICE
© 2005 Wasted Time |
STORYMANIA PUBLICATION DATE
January 2006 |
NUMBER OF TIMES TITLE VIEWED
2253
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