07
Nov
09

Crawling out of my skin.

I really want my mind to slow down.  It won’t just relax.  It’s moving, moving, moving.  If only it were a steady, productive motion.  But instead I am running this hamster wheel with every ounce of energy I don’t have.  God, it’s exhausting.  I’m even having trouble stilling my eyelids if I try to close my eyes.  This is terrifyingly pathetic.

My head is poundingpoundingpounding, a tightly snapping band that traces the base of my skull from ear to ear.  Make it stop.  Just make it stop.

The mental part of the cessation of oxy was not ever the issue for me.  Until tonight.  My body felt like it was crawling out of my skin, my mind felt like a badly synced percussion band, and my back was killing me.  Oh, and nausea beyond all get out.  And although I have been at a complete loss as to how someone goes through the whole withdrawal process only to begin using again, it all came clear tonight.  It’s not necessarily the craving of the “high” that people are after.  It’s a numbing of all the other background (and foreground) noise that prevents us from hearing our own breath.

I didn’t want the rush tonight – it was a rare occasion that I ever had.  What I wanted was the quiet.  The comfortable silence.  Not just the absence of sound, but the presence of possibility.  I wanted that more than I may have ever wanted anything in my life.  So far, I’ve managed to keep at bay the realization of that desire by opiate catalysts.  But the night is young yet.

So now I get it.  The infamous “they” always talk about addictions developing to mask or deny the pain.  Until tonight, I don’t think I had ever fully understood that sentiment.  Yes, I understood that people with painful emotional scars often became addicts of one variety or another, and that their drug of choice could be just about anything under the sun, from heroin to sex to booze to shopping to work, or a million other possibilities.  I guess this is the first time I have ever truly comprehended what a devastatingly physical pain those emotional scars can beget.

I want to relax, get out of my own head.  I want to shut down for a little while, just turn it off.  I want my feet to stop jiggling, my stomach to stop rebelling, my head to stop pounding, my skin to stop crawling, my nerves to stop jolting or shocking me throughout my system.  I want to be empty, for a stretch.  I can’t even calm the thoughts down slow enough to properly catch what they are.  There’s about a million and 9 of them dancing around in my head, just outside my circle of comprehension.  I feel like I’m getting dumber by the minute.

I smoked a joint to try and take my pain down a few notches – both the physical and the mental.  Worked for about 15 minutes, at best.  I’m still sitting here staring at a couple of bottles of different strengths of oxy’s, not 10 feet away from me.  I’m trying so hard not to go there, because if I go back down that road, I’m not sure that I will be able to stop it.

Best that I can do is to sit here and write.  Maybe if I get it out of my head, I won’t have to remember it all anymore, at least not all at once.  Then I won’t have to carry it around with me all the time, and I can make a little room for something new.  So I write, and I write, and I write.  Not that anyone but me is likely to read this, I suppose.  But then, that’s not the point now, is it?

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