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I remember it vividly from when I stopped using heroin: that slow surge back to life of passions dropped on the journey. I'd been too busy keeping up with my addiction to notice them go - my sex drive, my love of food, my love of music, my trustworthiness, the characters and stories in my head, my dreams, my capacity to give a shit about other people. All I'd held onto was a love of books (portable, easy to steal and useful because dealers always make you wait around with your thumb up your arse for hours) and my beloved obligation to my dog (which was all that saved me, in the end). Everything else got pissed away without me noticing or caring.
I quit by wangling myself a methadone prescription that we reduced by an infinitesimal weekly amount over eight months. People have told me it's admirable that I resisted using any extracurricular opiates during this time, but I don't feel that. For one thing, I'd exaggerated my addiction to the point where my initial methadone dose was WAY higher than I actually needed; there was no chance of any withdrawal symptoms leaking through and that made it very easy not to want heroin. For another, although I was going through treatment while at liberty on the streets, I was still being drug-tested twice weekly. Any fails would have shot the whole thing down, and I badly didn't want that. I was just so fucking sick of the whole addict thing. It's living your life like a zombie in a hamster wheel on Groundhog Day. Nothing new ever happens, and nothing GOOD ever happens; the best luck you can ever hope to get is only good for putting a slightly longer distance between you and the pain. I wanted out so very badly, and here I was being given a painfree pass. I wouldn't have risked that for all the poppies in Afghanistan.
OH LOOK I AM WANDERING OFF THE POINT I WAS ATTEMPTING TO MAKE. Here it is. I'm 23 days into thyroxine and the journey is taking on a spooky familiarity. I didn't carry deathtired around nearly as long as I did heroin addiction, but it was long enough to get used to it: to not expect to be able to think, or walk more than a couple of hundred yards, etc etc. Nor am I anything like back to normal yet, but I'm having more good days than bad ones. IT'S SO DAMN GOOD. I'm writing again. The dogs are back to getting at least two park romps a week and I hardly ever have to write off the rest of the day afterwards. I've started having vivid, interesting dreams again. The other day a brief TV show swimming pool scene sparked the realisation that I'll be able to go swimming again in this lifetime. I wanted to dance for joy.
I quit by wangling myself a methadone prescription that we reduced by an infinitesimal weekly amount over eight months. People have told me it's admirable that I resisted using any extracurricular opiates during this time, but I don't feel that. For one thing, I'd exaggerated my addiction to the point where my initial methadone dose was WAY higher than I actually needed; there was no chance of any withdrawal symptoms leaking through and that made it very easy not to want heroin. For another, although I was going through treatment while at liberty on the streets, I was still being drug-tested twice weekly. Any fails would have shot the whole thing down, and I badly didn't want that. I was just so fucking sick of the whole addict thing. It's living your life like a zombie in a hamster wheel on Groundhog Day. Nothing new ever happens, and nothing GOOD ever happens; the best luck you can ever hope to get is only good for putting a slightly longer distance between you and the pain. I wanted out so very badly, and here I was being given a painfree pass. I wouldn't have risked that for all the poppies in Afghanistan.
OH LOOK I AM WANDERING OFF THE POINT I WAS ATTEMPTING TO MAKE. Here it is. I'm 23 days into thyroxine and the journey is taking on a spooky familiarity. I didn't carry deathtired around nearly as long as I did heroin addiction, but it was long enough to get used to it: to not expect to be able to think, or walk more than a couple of hundred yards, etc etc. Nor am I anything like back to normal yet, but I'm having more good days than bad ones. IT'S SO DAMN GOOD. I'm writing again. The dogs are back to getting at least two park romps a week and I hardly ever have to write off the rest of the day afterwards. I've started having vivid, interesting dreams again. The other day a brief TV show swimming pool scene sparked the realisation that I'll be able to go swimming again in this lifetime. I wanted to dance for joy.
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