Yesterday I took zero of that shit and it was ok!  Only one valium, during the day.  Then I celebrated by having a delicious, cold, locally-brewed beer out on the town with Jack.


Man, I don’t know how Eminem ever took twenty Vicodin a day.  How did he ever take a crap?  SRSLY.


I wrote earlier about Eminem and how he overcame his addiction to Vicodin.  When I initially torqued my spine and pelvis a month ago, I refused narcs, remembering how hard it was to wean off the stuff.  Then I got the script from my PCP, realizing that I really did need it.  Then I was obstinate about refilling it, and went through a difficult, painful weekend…got the refill…and watching the number of white oblong magic pills decrease (slowly, with wise, judicious use)  is giving me a weird feeling.  I don’t watch the clock anymore- but I still need them in the morning to get moving, and before PT (my PT is awesome.  Although I shocked her today by asking if it was ok to resume sex again.  Did I mention I torqued my pelvis?)   She did say that continuing to play the bass will be no problem, but she didn’t directly answer the sex question.  Hmmm.  (Don’t worry about Jack.  I take good care of my man.  I am a creative girl.)


So I am hoping this is the last bottle.  But man, if I could be on valium forever, now that would be something.  What if I just get a valium tat?  It will always be on my body then.  Would that, like, work?  What if the ink were made of slow-release valium?  Hmmm… now there is a thought.  That’s an even better idea than white-ink tattoos for black people.

I’ve been spending so much time online lately (too hazy to be doing anything useful, I feel compelled to add), that when asleep, which is intermittent and often, I dream about my laptop…floating pain-free around the Interwebs…

And here I am again, writing about it.  This thing is not just a window; it is also a mirror, showing only a reflection of itself.

My cats always know when I need them most.  Marilyn- the long-haired glamour girl- is purring, at my side, rubbing her chin on the computer, now settling in on my ankles.  Sleek Sheba normally isn’t so affectionate.  Half-Siamese, she is like an ancient archetypical heiroglyphic stone carving: long-legged, elegant, aloof; she does not typically sleep anywhere near me.  Kurt Cobain must have been referencing her when he sang “where did you sleep last night?…in the pines, in the pines.”  Last night Sheba slept next to me- so rare, such a precious occurrence- between my right shoulder and my neck, with Marilyn under my left arm.  Jack generously slept on the couch, leaving me and the cats room to spread out and thrash and awaken and moan and try to read and maybe, even, sleep- a deep, drugged, dreamless coma.

Jack brought me  a bowl of cherries (unlike life), and went to a meeting in my stead.  I can’t stand or sit for more time than it takes to pee.  However, at least I can make it to the bathroom to pee.  Last time this happened, I had to pee into towels on the floor- I literally could not stand up.  That’s real love, I mean real, true love: carefully sliding towels under your wife’s usually hot ass, allowing her to pee into them, and then cleaning it all up, and then– perhaps most importantly- still thinking she’s a loving sexy beast at a later date.

Believe me, I love Jack just as much, if not more.

OK, so I wrote about pain and Vicodin the other day.  The intent of this blog, my initial intent, was to be brutally honest.  To possibly change a few incriminating minor details, in order to remain anonymous, but only to free me in order to facilitate this brutal honesty.

Pleaseforgive any typos here or whatever.  I am flat on my back, on the (brilliant invention: laptop with accompanying wireless Interweb connexion) due to an exacerbation of a longstanding chronic pain problem i have had since- let me see- maybe when I was 14 when it first started?  many years.  Many.  Too many.

This pain has led me to seriously contemplate suicide, to request Jack’s assistance with this, or to come up with alternate plans that I could manage myself.  Just to get relief of a permanent nature.  Valium, narcotics, ice, heat, liquor, nothing is cutting it.  Distraction works amazingly well, but when I am so doped up it is hard to focus.

I walked in to the doctor’s office today- a new doc as mine moved several towns away relatvely recently- and he did give me scripts for valium and vicodin.  I had been worried.  A “new patient” looking for pain meds can seem a bit suspect.  Between depending on my cane, my stiff awkward body habitus, and tears of frustration though, he seemed to believe me.  He had a detached compassion.  He ordered some PT.  I almost asked for an SSRI too.  I didn’t mention my suidical ideations;  I never do.  Why?  What good would that do?  I have a cat next to me now; I’m set up with a water bottle, heating pad, cell phone, laptop, fruits, my cane, (“my cane?”  WTF?) because when these things happen i know what to do now.  It’s been a few too many times.)

Jack will come home later, be a little nice to me, and I can read his mind: “Buck up.  Get over it. Walk it off.  Quit your pity party.”

Yeah.  Whatever.

This week I read an article about Eminem and his struggle with- and victory over- addiction to prescription pills. I didn’t even recognize his full-page photo at the start of the article. Even after the article and caption assured me that the picture was, indeed, Eminem (and Marshall Mathers, and Slim Shady) I still could not resolve the pixels to tell my brain that yes, this was Eminem, my beloved Rabbit from 8 Mile.   He looked like a completely different person, bloated, old.

The interview described an Elvis-like cycle of using different prescription medications.  Like Elvis, he had become unrecognizable.

As Eminem- who sports a vicodin tat on his left arm- raps in his song Under the Influence: “I’m like a mummy at night/fightin’ with bright lightning/frightened with five little white Vicodin pills bitin’ him.”  In Stan, he told us in a letter, “I’m on a thousand downers now/ I’m drowsy.”  Indeed, he was spiraling downward: taking uncountable amounts of Vicodin.  He didn’t know: 10, 20 pills a day.  Now, each Vicodin contains 500 mg of Acetaminophen- also known as Tylenol- and a person should not take more than 4000 mg daily, to avoid liver damage.  That would be eight Vicodin in a 24-hour period.  Couple that with the many Ambien and whatever else he was taking, and no wonder he looks a lot more like 70’s Elvis than lithe 50’s Elvis, or than 90’s Eminem, for that matter. 

He does, however, have focus now.  His moods are no longer labile.  He can work on his music again in ways he could not when on the cycle of drugs and more drugs and then more drugs again, unmeasured.

I say all of this without judgement.  It is very easy to get addicted to Vicodin.  I did.  After I had surgery a few years ago I had Oxycontin and regular Oxycodone, stuff that didn’t really help any of my pain- it just made me feel dull.  I had several months off work and couldn’t read, which normally I love; I couldn’t write, except for keeping careful track of which drugs I had taken and when.  I was awake at weird times.  All I could do was watch TV.  I got so bored with TV that I started watching Spanish TV.  I don’t even speak Spanish.  It was all the same to me. 

After I started feeling better, they gave me Vicodin, and that was the drug I couldn’t shake.  I could not wean myself off of it.  I still had to take it at night.  It was a physical dependence.  It was difficult.   I do have an unusual tenacity, though, and I wanted to have a completely clear head again, but even still, it was hard.  I know this.  I want you to know this too.

Eminem, I am so happy for you.