I wake up to the now familiar soft humming of the fan blowing on my face. I find it helps with the sweating that comes to me in the middle of the night. My body raging with streams of oily liquid pouring from my scalp in protest, reminding me that I haven’t taken a pain pill in more than 7 hours.
I turn to look at my husband sitting next to me on the bed, huddled in a blanket laughing to himself while watching a super hero movie. I hate those damn animated super hero movies. He is, as usual, so engrossed in his cartoon characters that he is totally oblivious to the pile of misery that is his wife laying next to him.
Although he’s a big muscular guy, he looks child-like sitting in front of the t.v. watching cartoons while chuckling to himself. I used to love his simple minded ways but lately I find them irritating. Maybe I’m a little jealous because he is so carefree and I am just the opposite. “Lighten up” he says to me quite often these days.
My husband is 5 years younger than me but sometimes I feel a lot older. He is my 2nd husband and I am his first, and hopefully last, wife. He’s a Longshoreman at the local port and works hard. He’s generally a good hearted man who, I have no doubt, truly loves me. During the 10 years we have been married he has seen me at my best and certainly has seen me at my worst. At least I hope so.
It’s Saturday and I want to just lay in bed and rest my aching, sweat soaked body but I promised my mother I would come see her today. I panic and reach for my cell phone to check the time. I have to be at my mother’s before 10:00 a.m. – or else. She believes that anyone who gets up after 0800 is scum of the earth. According to her, only losers and drug addicts sleep until noon. Little does she know that her daughter has become a pill popper that would impress even the most seasoned druggie.
I gather the strength to reach for my Coach handbag on my nightstand, trying to remember if I have enough pills to get me through the visit with my mom and the rest of the day which is sure to be filled with taking care of everything and everybody.
I often wonder what would happen to my husband, daughter and mother if I were to fall off the face of the earth. My God what would they do? How would they survive without me solving every problem for them or making their doctor appointments?
My mind wanders but I get back to the task of rummaging through my purse. Shaking every prescription bottle until I hear the sweet sound of little pills jiggling in the one bottle that’s not empty. Say hello to my little friends! Note to self – clean out my purse so my husband doesn’t find the empty bottles. Those damned empty bottles hanging around like abandoned skeletons in the graveyard my purse has become for them.
My Coach handbag is a parody of me. Admirable on the outside but a mesh of ugly little secrets and chaos on the inside.
Feeling the onset of hopelessness moving in like a tidal wave I quickly think about my daughter. The only pure joy I have these days is watching my daughter bloom into the beautiful woman she is.
Watching her reminds me of the past – happier days when I was full of life and hope. Thinking of her also brings me clarity and purpose so I don’t just give up. When her dad, my first husband, and I divorced it was just her and I for a very long time. And although she is a grown woman now our bond is stronger than ever.
So when I start to feel that emptiness and despair I think of my daughter and how I need to continue going on for her.
“Mornin babe how ya feelin?” My husband finally focuses on me during a commercial break. He knows I deal with chronic pain but has no idea how the little monkey on my back has become King Kong. He offers me 2 of his 5mg vicodins and a hot cup of coffee. How sweet. That used to get me hopping out of bed and facing anything the day had to offer. But now the vicodins have the same effect as taking tic tacs. I am now accustomed to 30 mg oxys…the Big Boys. Or 15 mgs at the very least.
With faked gratitude, I take the 2 vicodins my husband offers me and shuffle myself to the bathroom, turn on the shower, and open my bottle containing the magical blue pills. I promptly swallow one along with the tic tacs and take a big gulp of hot coffee. As I’m in the shower I start to feel the warmness rushing through my body. Ahhhh sweet relief. All of a sudden the sweating is gone as if someone turned the faucet off. My attitude takes a 180 and I start to feel like I can face the day.
It’s another beautiful gray day in Seattle. As I’m driving down the freeway I hear the wipers softly swishing across my windshield back and forth. In rythmn with the Drake song playing on my radio. “God’s plan, God’s plan..I hold back, sometimes I won’t…I feel good, sometimes I don’t.” It’s not quite a down pour yet but there’s enough rain drops to have my wipers on.
I see the gray skies getting darker as I drive towards my mother’s house. I’m glad I took enough time to put my makeup on perfectly. I put my hair into a neat French roll, and wore my new jeans and Columbia rain jacket. I topped it all off with my favorite shade of candy apple red lipstick and matching nail polish. I check myself in the rear view mirror and feel confident that my mom will not have an inkling of how horrible I looked and felt less than 2 hours ago from withdrawal.
As I’m heading to see my mom I am reminded of the pressure of being the only child and how overwhelming it is at times. All of my parents’ hopes and dreams for me weighing so heavily that sometimes I feel I can’t breathe.
My dad dedicated over 20 years of service to the Army. He fought in both the Korean and Vietnam wars, where he received the Purple Heart medal for his bravery in the infantry.
He was a brilliant man who loved to play chess. My mother still has my dad’s trophies displayed from the many chess tournaments he won. Like a shrine, they sit next to pictures of my dad along with his Purple Heart medal and the neatly triangular folded American flag my mother received from an Army officer when my dad passed away.
Eventually my dad succumbed to the alcoholism that runs in his family triggered by the trauma and PTSD he suffered after serving in the military. Even through his darkest days I was the light of my dad’s life. He expected excellence from me including bringing home straight A report cards which I accomplished up until he committed suicide when I was 15.
It’s tragic irony that the 357 Magnum my dad taught my mom and I to shoot for protection was what he actually used to take his life.
My Japanese mother came from an affluent family. She was proud of her father who was a high ranking police officer in the town she grew up in and her brother a very successful doctor.
My mother is extremely class conscience. She takes the term “saving face” to a whole new level. She made sure all of her friends and neighbors knew her daughter was a successful executive and handed out my business cards for any reason she could find – which was quite embarassing at times. Why she found the need to give one of my business cards to her elderly next door neighbor is beyond me. I felt a twinge of guilt when I lied and told her I ran out of the cards once her supply was gone.
My mother also demands I drive my S class Mercedes anytime I come to visit her. God forbid her neighbors see me pull up in my Nissan. She also shares with everyone that my husband and I live in a house located in the local country club.
Little does my mother know the price I paid to have and keep my stressful executive position. How I made a deal with the devil – success in exchange for a little slice of my soul each day I entered that hell hole of an office – and how I would go through my prescription of antianxiety meds that were meant to last a month in less than 2 weeks. It is not acceptable for my mother to talk about such unpleasant things.
I pick my mother up from her perfect house with the perfectly manicured lawn complete with Bonsai trees. She’s wearing her Tommy Hilfiger jacket and Liz Claiborne shoes and still doesn’t have a wrinkle on her face. We go through our familiar routine of running errands and having lunch at our favorite Chinese restaurant.
Even with all of the pressure and held-in frustration I have at times, I love my mother. There is a mixture of adoration and sadness for her. I know she misses my dad and I can tell the loneliness has taken a toll on her emotionally. I still, at 57 years old, try not to dissappoint her and starve for her approval and love. How it would break her heart if my mother knew her only daughter is one of the addicts she would regard as “low class”.
My mother is 85 years old and I decide to spare her the heartache by telling her everything is wonderful in my life as usual. She smiles in approval, proudly showing her new gleaming white dentures. I give her a hug and a kiss and tell her I will see her in a couple of days.
She watches and waves at me as I drive down her driveway. The look on her face gives me a glimpse of the wisdom she has of the unspoken truth.
As I head back home I’m very careful to pay attention to the road as I reach for my purse. I have to shake my bottle of pain meds to make sure I still have a few left to go home and clean the house and cook dinner.
Luckily I have gotten good at estimating how many pills are in the bottle so I can keep my eyes on the road. With just a few left I decide to go to the cash machine and give Mary – my dealer – a call so I can buy 10 of the Big Boys to carry me through the rest of the weekend. She charges a little more than my so called friend but I would rather spend my money with Mary than the two faced friend who, like a vulture, waits until I get desperate and offers me a “deal” because she cares for me so much.
My friend goes to church every Sunday. Once she closes her bible she calls me to gossip about her friends and neighbors and even her husband and daughter. Amen sister. During the last 20 years that I’ve known her, it’s become clear that nobody is safe from her venomous tongue. Therefore neither am I, I’m sure. In our last conversation she boasted about how her husband was studying to become a minister for their church as she was heading to pick up his eigth of weed from the local dispensary.
As I think about my friend the vulture, my phone rings. My husband wants us to go to the casino tonight. Between my pills and his gambling it’s a miracle we haven’t gone bankrupt….yet. I used to complain about the money he spent gambling but decided that it was hypocritical of me to do so. Either that or I just plain quit caring somewhere down the road.
I pull up to Mary’s house where she greets me at the door with her crooked smile and cornrow braids. “Girrlll I was worried about you drivin in this damn rain.” I find myself growing fond of Mary. Her raw realness is refreshing to me. We do our exchange and chit chat for a bit. She always says something funny to make me laugh and makes me want to stay and hangout with her. We really have nothing in common other than the needed exchange but still I enjoy her company.
As I leave Mary’s house I’m now driving in a full blown rain storm. Nothing unusual for this area. I feel reassured after replenishing my supply that not even this rain storm is going to get me down. As a matter of fact I’ve grown to love the rain.
I feel like I can quit taking these little blue pills if I put my mind to it. Until then thank God I see my pain management doctor in a few days so I can get a legitimate refill.
Sometimes I even try to convince myself that I’m not an addict but just need my pain meds to function. But that would make me a living, breathing oxymoron. Now there’s a real play on words.
Driving home in the rain I feel relief and sadness at the same time. I have my Big Boys but I know my day will start the same way tomorrow….with the soft humming of the fan blowing on my face.
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