Wednesday, April 29, 2009
I love it so much when counselors tell you that withdrawal symptoms are mostly psychological in nature. "Oh", they say, "I'm not discounting that there are some physical symptoms, but a lot of it is in your head." Times like those I wish I could immediately curse them with instant withdrawal symptoms and let them tell me then that it's all in the head. If you want to be technical, everything is in our heads. Every feeling, emotion, sensation - it all starts in the head. We're not imagining a sudden lack of endorphins, there really IS a sudden lack of endorphins and that fucking hurts any way you slice it.
So our clinic is located in this middle class, rural neighborhood in a split level, converted barn. It looks more like a house now which has been converted to office space. The building is spacious, cold, and impersonal like most clinics. Because it's in a rural area, you need a car to get there which helps cut down on some of the bullshit and the lingering that happens at most urban clinics. But you're always going to have the odd, loitering, hanger-on as is the nature of clinics. It can't be avoided.
Mike and I do our best to get there early every day because the earlier you get to a clinic, the better. Well, at most places there is a busy half hour to an hour directly after they open for all the folks who work early-morning jobs like farming, painting, construction. Some places have a half hour reserved only for people who can provide proof of employment so they can dose and leave. We did that when we first started M-done, but it got mad old because there is inevitably a problem causing you to be late for work. And unless you are super open and tell your boss you're on M-done, you end up having to make all these excuses which make no sense because, of course, they're not true. It didn't take long to figure that the best way for us would be to simply work nights and then we wouldn't have to stress about whatever the clinic threw at us. Hold my dose, whatever, I got all day. Anyway, the percentage of people who work full-time jobs is absurdly low at most clinics. That being the case, after the short a.m. rush, it's pretty quiet until about an hour before they close. Fifteen minutes before closing is mayhem.
But sometimes, no matter how early you get there, no matter how much you do to mind your own business, someone just has to fuck with you. And so be it. So I get there the other day and there is this girl and her husband and baby there and I really don't like this girl because she is one of those nosy type people who insist on talking to you even when you go out of your way to be as inaccessible as possible. A while back I was standing in a corner waiting for my turn on a particularly busy and crowded day and she literally snatched, snatched I tell you, my book right out of my hands. It was an Anne Rice vamp book, and she was all, "Oh, I read this ages ago, in like high school, oh my God!" So of course I was like, roll my eyes, "Hmph, yeah, great." And we really never hit it off since. There are other little, nit-picky things I could harp on about why else I don't like her - but really, what would be the point?
So she was there this day and her husband (by the way, it's like faggy Jack Sprat and his tubby wife go to Old Navy with their baby) and he was just coming down from the dosing landing and she was downstairs by the door with her baby, talking to the director as if she had already dosed. And there was some other random 'regular' who was between husband guy and us. So we do as usual, keep our eyes cast down, don't speak to anyone, sign in and go up to waiting area. The girl ahead of us is sitting there waiting for husband to get out of the way which took a while, then she doses while we quietly wait in line behind her and as she finishes she starts to holler, "Oh, wait, isn't what's her name next? Where is she, blah-blah get up here!" And I'm like, "Un-uh, no way, we're next. You snooze, you lose. She ain't here, she ain't next, so's the name of the game." And of course, she didn't like that and huffed past me to fume to her dumb friend. Who by the way, was all "Let her go." As if it weren't my turn and I was gonna go whether she condoned it or not. Mike and I show up there together every fucking day, and if I stop and have to talk to my counselor or something and someone shows up in between us and signs in and goes upstairs before I do, I have to wait for them to go. It's fucking happened, like three times, and whatever, my bad, I sucked it up. Their turn. Not to mention, they are no job, trusty trust funders who have no place to be while I've been at work all night and want to go to sleep. So we both dose, me first.
As I go to leave, I have to walk past this lady, still fuming. And still sitting up in the waiting area which is not cool - leave already, get a life, it's not Panera. So she can't resist and looks at me and says, "You're a miserable bitch." Which automatically elicits a "Yeah, and you're a fat cunt." Okay, I know two wrongs don't make a right, but fuck that. I know I have very little restraint and it's childish to say that she started it, but she did. If you can't take the heat, don't go in the kitchen. And for once in my life, I didn't get blamed for the whole thing. As some know, I've been kicked out of a clinic for fighting already. That time it was I sprayed some ass w/mace for stealing my wallet out of my car when I gave them a ride and smoked em' up.
So the moral of my story: If you go to a clinic, mind your own business and don't pick fights because you never know who will just lose it and spray you with mace.
Monday, April 27, 2009
I always had a connection to plants and herbs especially. For a long time I was really interested in studying natural medicine. That was sort of my whole thing in school and it's always sort of what I envisioned my career path to be. But somewhere along the way I lost that vision and embraced this whole chemical dependence thing. Before,I had been all about finding that in life which brings happiness through health and nature. I suppose that somewhere along the way I became infatuated with the instant happiness and sense of well-being I got from drugs. I'll always feel that there is a place for that sort of pleasure, but too much of even the best thing can be poison. I think I need to reintroduce myself to parts of me that have been dormant for a while. Maybe I'll feel like I'm moving forward again, then. Because they way I feel now I may as well set up a tent in a hole and live there in a rut forever.
The first thing I need to do before anything else is wean off the last little bit of M-done. That will help me save a hundred and five dollars a week which could be much better spent in other places. For instance, if I could free up those funds then I could perhaps think about trying to get my license straightened out. I am stuck all the time. I can't drive myself anywhere because I don't have a license and I've been caught too many times now driving w/out one if I don't stop now I'll have no license to get back. Until I can do those two things there's not much point in focusing on anything else, it would be jumping the gun. First things first.
I also realize that I probably feel sick a lot and over-tired because I don't get enough sleep and my schedule is a mess from working nights. So I'm going to be playing with my schedule over the next few months while I'm trying to get off the M-done, yet again. My goal is to get eight hours of sleep a night and to attempt to keep my sleep/wake schedule the same on my days off as when I'm on. I've read a lot about how a disruptive sleep schedule can really wreak havoc on a person physically. This is going to be a challenge because I work twelve-hour shifts. By the time we drive twenty-minutes past our house to dose and back I'm lucky if I have an hour and a half left before I'd have to go to sleep in order to get eight hours of sleep. I have to remember I need to be up by six p.m. to have enough time to get to work on schedule.
My first thought is that I need to go grocery shopping for the whole week at once, on one of my days off, as opposed to my current daily shopping tendency. That will save a ton of time, in theory. That will take much planning on my part. Planning ahead which is so not my forte. I used to like cooking and baking when I was little and into my teens but as an adult it feels like a chore a lot of the time. Although I'm beginning to enjoy preparing meals more in our new place. There is something peaceful about it that makes everything done there seem less sucky. I like to be able to eat whatever I may be craving that day, at that moment. So when I shop day by day, I'm sure to get what I want, to eat. I just don't get any sleep. I need both. So I'm going to try really hard to get Mike and I not to have to go to the store every day. I've wanted to join a CSA for our summer produce for a few years now. That way I would get a weeks worth of veggies every week and I could plan around whatever we got. Depending where you join you can get fruit and honey and stuff too. And it's actually cheaper in the long run, especially since there are only two of us and we need only buy a half share. I think it seems like I'm spending more when I shop all at once because it costs more at first. But it ends up being less than spending smaller amounts each day.
I know this is such completely mundane information. I suppose I know people look at it - but blogging is more like a diary, it seems, for most people here. Maybe the voyeuristic nature of blogging is a large part of the appeal. People can't help looking in on the lives of others. Even the mundane can be fascinating sometimes.
So my short, short term goal is to shop for the whole week this weekend. Buy enough stuff on Saturday to have breakfast, lunch, dinner and snack foods for the whole week. That is my challenge. After that, get more sleep and try again to get off the M-done. Then hopefully I'll have more energy and more money available to accomplish bigger stuff and eventually get my license back.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
So we're not supposed to accept anything that any of the drivers try to give us. I think that's bullshit. So if someone tries to be nice by giving me some rolls or candy or soda, I'm supposed to say 'no thanks'? Yeah, right. It doesn't happen everyday, but every so often. It's generally something that they were going to eat themselves or throw away anyhow. So obviously I do accept whatever I'm offered, and I usually eat it too. This driver just came by and saw me eating Smart food, and asked if I liked popcorn. Obviously, as I am eating it now, I like it. So he gives me this very phallic looking popcorn thing. I can't help smirking as I reach for it. I thank him profusely as it always makes guys happy when they think you're happy because of something they did. It makes my job so much easier if I just flatter and flirt a bit. But I wonder where they get some of this stuff, what stores sell these things? So this thing is called a Caramel Cob. Seriously, I wish I had a camera. I'll try to describe it - obviously it is in the shape of an ear of corn, and it's in a plastic sleeve with green husks decorating the bottom to mimic an actual ear of corn. It then has a 'smack & snack' logo, instructing the 'fun way to open!' by pushing the top of cob through wrapper by smacking bottom of cob upward(I tried it, it worked)! I swear I'm not making this up. And you know what? It's actually quite good and caramelly chewy too.
I am so pale. I stood outside today and took off my shoes and rolled up my pants as I watched the dogs run around. I made the mistake of looking down at my white legs and they looked so white they appeared to be glowing almost translucent against the grass. I'm not used to being so pale. I've always worked on farms up until recently. That being what it is, I'd always have a tan by the end of April from standing in the sun all day. Super pale does not suit me at all - but neither does time-consuming natural tanning for tanning's sake. If I'm doing an outdoor activity, even if I can read outside, great. But I can't just sit there soaking up the sun, I get too hot and too bored (I hate the word bored actually. It's false anyway. I'm never so much bored as I am sick and tired and scared of my own thoughts). And tanning in a salon is not something I ever really took to. I am not good about going enough times in a row to get tan, so it seems like a waste of time and money. Although maybe I should keep trying since I'm all set with farm jobs and I have little time and less money for outdoor leisure activities. At least now I have a yard I can lounge in. And I can pretend I'm being productive sitting out there watching the dogs. Dogs need to go out, don't they?
The girl who works the shack opposite me at work at nights also happens to live in the same apartment building as me. She lives upstairs and so the logic is that she gets an indoor parking space in one of the garages on the property. At first Mike was all pissed that he didn't get an indoor spot. Well, thank God. Because turns out Laura has mice attacking her car from the nests they have built in the engine compartment. Sucks, right? They are messing with the wiring causing radio shorts. Luckily they didn't cause a fire from the stuff they hauled in there for nests. They stuffed leaves and cigarette buts in crevices. That would have been wicked fucked up if that happened to our car. Not that it's great for her, but it's not me. Is that awful to say, am I jinxing myself?
Yippee!!! Only an hour left to go for the night! Every other Wednesday I get to go home at one. That's a six hour shift as opposed to twelve. Most weeks I work forty-eight hour weeks, not by choice might I add. I'd rather work less and make less, actually, I'd rather work less and make more, much more. Maybe some day. For now, Goodnight. I am going to go mill about to pass the minutes, sweep the floor, finish up paperwork, smoke a onie in the shadows. Until next time.
Monday, April 13, 2009
On the days we do share, Mike often gets out a few hours earlier than I do. On such days he tries to get a few extra hours sleep by driving home and crashing until I get out. So this morning was one such opportunity. So he gets out and stops by my shack to let me know he's done and taking off. But he didn't grab the one set of house keys and I didn't notice until he calls from the apartment all pissed about it. Now I don't think it's my responsibility to remind him to take the keys. Of course if I had noticed they were on the table I would have said something. But he's a grown man, he knows there is one set of keys for the new place still, but nonetheless he calls and in a very accusatory tone says, "I suppose you have the keys there?" And I'm like, "Oh, crap, yeah. What are you going to do?" And he replies by moping and swearing. And then I lay the options down, like, you can stay there and break in if you are able, or you can drive back the ten minute drive or less and get the keys. "But", I say "I cannot beam them to you, so make up your mind, I have to work." And what does he do? Hangs up on me. What the fuck? Seriously. Grow Up, Guys Everywhere - Take Responsibility!!!
Obviously he ends up driving back here to get the stupid keys. And he just grabs them and roars off. As if stomping on the car now is going to make him get the last half hour back. I guess he's not so concerned about the car breaking down at the moment.
And although I am annoyed, I'm not feeding into this bullshit. He'll have gotten over it by the time he has to pick me up. But I still shouldn't have to be dragged through his crap at all.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
We buried Chuck Norris at my mom's house last night. We drove down to spend the night for Easter. We had to get back for work tonight so we didn't get to spend much time there. We buried C. Norris and had dinner, fell asleep and drove back to our part of NH to dose. I had not even a full glass of white wine w/dinner and I felt so sick this morning, I puked before we drove home. I don't know why, man, but I cannot stomach wine at all these days. Especially if the bottle has been open for a night already, I'm totally in for it. And even though I am totally aware that I will be sick, I always tell myself I'll be fine and I do it time and time again, despite knowing full well the shitty consequences.
Nice, I love it when time goes by quickly at work. Of course, logically, I know that time always moves at the same pace. Putting aside logic, we all know that time most certainly does not move at the same pace. When I'm tired time seems to drag, and I'm tired tonight so it's unusual for time to be flitting by so nicely. I was reminded last night of why I am so glad that I do not live at home with my mother and three siblings. My two brothers and my sister all still live at home, and it being a Saturday night, had friends tromping in, out, and about the house until the wee hours. And they just flip on lights and laugh and shout like there is not anyone trying to sleep right in the room next to them. And it's not as if they're teenagers anymore. Well, my youngest brother Sam is eighteen so I can't blame him for being thoughtless. But the other two should be more respectful - in fact, they should have their own places by now.
Wow. This is so not at all interesting. Apparently my brother was uninvited to Easter dinner because a couple days ago he was down in Boston and he was with my cousin buying some opiate products when they were spotted by another family member. And my cousin, Hannah, had so thoughtfully decided to bring her toddler along for the ride, with no car seat, on a drug run. And my aunt, ever willing to come up with any reason to lay blame anywhere but on her own daughter, blames Scooter for bring baby Mark with them. He's not the kid's mother, or father, he has no control over what she does with her son. She's been using since way before she had Mark, and throughout her pregnancy, and never really ever stopped. Actually, the first time I ever got high on an opiate was courtesy of Hannah. Yet my extended family has always labelled me and my sibling as the "druggie" grandchildren.
I know this is because my mom is the first to wail about her problems to her sisters but they keep their lips sealed when it comes to anything that may make them look bad. And although she is quite good at passing on the bad news, she is not so practiced at spreading the good news. Everyone knows when one of us gets arrested, but don't expect to have announcements made for getting a new job or apartment, or whatnot. I guess that's just human nature, we focus on the negative and take the positive for granted.
I hate police scanners by the way. They let on just enough information for you to become intrigued and then that's it, over. You would think that they would have better communication devices for police, but these things are like archaic. They look like mini versions of the first VCR's, like something out of the seventies. All black and big-knobbed, with fuzzy, chopped up communications. And really, I have yet to understand why on earth we need one here in the "Guard" shack. We do not ever interact with the police. Do we honestly need to know what they're talking about, half-way at that? I think one of the wannabe-cop weirdos who work the day shift brought it in to satisfy in some slight way their search for power.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
We had to euthanize one of our cats, Chuck Norris, and that's just so fucked up. He was such a good cat and he was only a year old. He was totally healthy it seemed and we took him to get fixed and get his shots last Saturday and he seemed really messed up from the anesthesia but eventually he began to walk around and eat, so we thought he was recovering fine. But I woke up the morning before yesterday and he was all small and frail looking, hunched under a shelf in the bathroom, drooling. It was obvious something wasn't right and we called our vet, the same one who had fixed him. She didn't seem to think it sounded serious and said she could see us at one. So we drove to the clinic to dose and I started to panic about him so we called a few vet hospitals in Keene and made an appointment for as soon as we could get him there. But we should have brought him directly to the vet. Not that it would have saved him, but maybe he would have been in less pain.
Even the vet cannot say for sure what happened. He probably had a pre-existing condition that was exasperated by the surgery and the move. He may have gotten a blood clot from the IV anesthesia and that may have travelled to his heart causing a lack of oxygen. Either way, he had heart and respiratory failure and because of the lack of oxygen, even though he was in an oxygen tank, some cell damage took place. His right arm where he got his shot was dead and limp. It was so horrible watching him suffer. Everything I read about cats and these types of symptoms on the Internet said that the survival rate was very low and upon survival of the initial episode, life expectancy is short. Had we brought him home to nurse him, he would have been in agony. Maybe if I had enough drugs to keep him medicated and happy, I'd try to hang on to him longer, but I don't.
What else is there really to say? Life is sad and mean and fucked up. It seems like there is no rhyme or reason to so many things in life. Why do bad things happen to good people? I can come up with as many theories as the next person, but nobody really knows. All I could tell him was that we loved him and if I had to die I would go the way he went. They basically OD'd him with barbiturates, which for him was likely as peaceful as a heavy, heavy heroin high for me.
It was late in the day before we finally made it home and I really want to bury him well and plant flowers where he's buried, so we decided to bury him tomorrow (or today, I guess). But I wasn't sure how the other animals would react to knowing he was there, so I left him in his little box in the trunk. I know that sounds horrible, he's not just laying there. He's in like a cat body bag (creepy) and then a box with my sweatshirt but I can't walk past the car without cringing.
Cat Dying = Sucks, Sucks, Sucks!!!!
This never-ending night is finally coming to a close and I can put my crap in my car and get ready to go. I just want to sleep through it all until it isn't sad and fucked any more. If I can't medicate myself heavily with my #1 drug of choice, I'll settle for puffing tough and sleeping the day away.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Finally moved into new apartment. Moved all weekend and then some and now live in a small, one bedroom place with boxes piled everywhere and not able to find anything until all is put away. I wrote a note to the people who live above us and I said hello and that we just moved in and that it would probably take a few weeks for our dogs to adjust to the new situation. I wrote that they could call us on our cell if there were any problems with them being annoyed with the dogs. But I didn't really expect them to call, mostly because our dogs aren't really bad. They grew up living in apartments and we never had any complaints about them. People may not like us but they don't usually have an issue with the dogs. But anyway, I wanted to be polite and give them our number just in case mostly so that they would call me before the landlord or the police. So, anyway, this is the first night we have had to work and leave them alone there. They've been there for two nights with us already. And at about ten-thirty the girl from upstairs called to say the dogs were barking too much and could we quiet them down so she could sleep, having to work at six-thirty in the morning she kept saying. She sounded totally pissed. And I was like, "They're barking? Oh, well, I'll see what I can do, we're at work so it'll be a few minutes before I can get there." And she was just like, "Okay". And she hung up. So I'm sitting here in my little shack wondering what the fuck I should do about this, why the hell did she have to call, I wish I didn't answer the phone, she would have to eventually just fall asleep. But I did answer. So I went in the warehouse and paged Mike and he asked his boss if he could drive home for a minute to check. So Mike drives all the way back to our place and the dogs weren't even barking. So he called the girl back (I'd call her by name but she didn't introduce herself) and she was all, "Oh, they're being quiet now, it was just probably because my husband was downstairs smoking a cigarette." And she told him not to bother checking on them if it was just going to work them all up again. But why the hell did she really need to call? I mean to me she was saying they had been barking for two hours and couldn't stress enough how she had to sleep. I would not hesitate to use the word bitch when thinking of the impression she made. But then Mike talks to her and she's all nice and it's no longer a problem. What the fuck is that? Anyway, I just really don't want to have problems with anyone in this place. I know the dogs will settle down eventually, if they were even being that loud. But when it really comes down to it, we live in a building with other people, the landlord allows animals, there is going to be noise - it's an old farmhouse, for real, get used to it. I mean, we work at night so we have to listen to everyone all day long. And today they were listening to some shitty pop music station and using some whirring machinery. Maybe they should buy a device to simulate the sound of the ocean or crickets or something to lull them to sleep.