Keep Your Basket Covered in the Woods

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Half a pill, really, of the second round of addictive substances. I was looking for the pills I’m taking for my back right now— the ones that are supposed to help with the swelling that I was addicted to first, back in high school, the ones that have had me hovering over the edge by their presence in my life for the past week and a half, that are mocking me now from my bedside table, that I hate, hate, hate so much but it’s either take them again or not walk, and so I do— but I couldn’t find them, and I was hurting so much, so I cut one of the second pills in half and took it. I was taking it safely, an din a small amount, and I was so, so sure I could handle it. I’m nineteen months clean, and I should have fucking known better.

I found the other pills ten minutes later in my purse.

Do I still get to say that I’m nineteen months clean after this? What is the protocol for addicts that are told by their doctors to keep the pills around, just in case? What is the terminology? How do I justify this? Am I back to day two? Is that what this is?

Because I could have looked harder. The pills were in my fucking purse; it was so obvious after I found them. They’ve been in and out of that bag for a week, and I should have looked there first. But I didn’t, and I hedged, and I justified, but I did use the pills as they were intended. I even used a half dose, hoping to play it safe. I just cut it in half. I didn’t tamper with it otherwise. I swallowed it down with lukewarm water and tried not to think anything of it, only to have everything boil over less than twenty-four hours later. I spent last night shaking and crying and vomiting from a panic attack triggered by my own stupidity and a short story that I should have stopped reading the moment I saw it was about withdrawal symptoms.

But I didn’t, because everyone is wrong about how withdrawal works.

Except they weren’t.

And I still have two bottles of pills in my room. 

And before you tell me to move them, I can’t. I’d have to touch them to move them, and I don’t think I can be trusted to do that right now. They are in a never used drawer of my dresser, and will hopefully stay there for some time. They will stay there for some time, because I’m not going to fucking touch them. I won’t.

I was debating about posting this. I don’t know. I just, I’ve been honest about all of the addiction shit that’s gone on in my life on this blog, and I don’t want to tell you this. I don’t want to show everyone here that I’ve failed, or something like that, but it feels like lying. And I promised never to lie about this shit on my blog, if only so I wouldn’t be able to lie to myself about it.

So, here. Take from this what you will.

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The pills I was prescribed to help with my back?

They’re the first ones I was addicted to.

Ain’t it motherfucking grand?

wish-sticks:

cloudhanded

they tell you that you’re strong and you
imagine them handing atlas the skies
and whispering the same thing;

you only wanted to put everything down for a few moments:
it is not weak to need to breathe in again, it is
not weak if your lungs cannot hold down saltwater

it is not weak
it is not weak
it is not weak

I spent ten minutes sobbing into my friend’s shoulder afterwards and I very sincerely do not want to talk about it right now.

It was a whole mess of addiction shit, plus all the time they were describing the funeral and how the family was acting was how my family dealt with my auntie’s death.

So.

I’m just posting here so everyone knows that I am one year, four months, and eighteen days clean, and tonight is not the night that streak stops. 

And we’ll leave it at that.