In case I forget.


Satin Pillow To Cry On
November 12, 2006, 8:00 am
Filed under: Dr. PCP, Fear, Husband, Mental Health, RX

I’m a sucker for those smarmy old Tammy Wynette songs. And even though I don’t use satin sheets or pillows (100% Egyptian cotton for me, baby!) I did wake up in tears this morning. It was from a dream – which I won’t torture you with – where I was incompetent and frustrated and getting yelled at for doing a bad job.

I got out of bed and left my husband to snore in peace. I came into the living room, got a diet coke, and swallowed all my morning pills. I am 42 years old. Every morning I swallow five pills, all of them prescribed to treat medical conditions which, if I wasn’t lucky enough to have diagnosed and treated, would probably eventually kill me in a slow, painful, unnecessary way. Every night I swallow yet another pill. These days I am also working my way through a Medrol dose pack, a big bottle of muscle relaxers, and a bigger bottle of narcotic pain relievers. When I go to bed at night I set my alarm for some cold, dark hour so I can swallow more of those last two. This makes it possible for me to not wake up literally screaming in pain six hours after the last time I swallowed that set of pills.

There is something wrong with my back. Something hideously painful that was so bad Thursday night that my husband called in sick to work Friday morning and hauled my creaking ass to Dr. PCP’s office without an appointment because he said I had screamed on and off all night, whenever I tried to move in my sleep. I only remembered the horrible pain just before I woke up. I was too exhausted to remember the rest of it from three nights of the same pain low in my thoracic spine. So Dr. PCP loaded me up with drugs that will hopefully settle everything down back there. I have my fingers crossed double.

Because of the narcotics and the muscle relaxers I’m not in pain right now. It’s six am and I had set my alarm to wake me at three am to swallow more pharmaceutical magic.

So anyway I woke up and came in here in tears from a bad dream. I sat down, ran my email, swallowed my regular morning drugs. Even though I have to wait an hour after taking all those drugs before I can have breakfast I am very hungry. I opened the electronic version of my local newspaper and after just a couple of minutes of headlines, my mind went to my Ruger, which this morning is sitting on the kitchen counter. I had this urge to go get it and blow my brains out.

I am not suicidal. I have a very low opinion of “Well I’m just going to KILL MYSELF!” people. But this morning, it sure went through my brain as a good way to deal with all this. I am so tired. Tired of being sick. Tired of being needy, pathetic, in pain, scared. I feel like I have become my mother, something I worked hard all my life not to be. I am in pain, I have a whole colony of plastic amber Walgreens bottles with child safety caps on my bedside. I wake early in the morning and watch the sunrise alone, worried about what will go wrong with me next. Because it has gotten to the point where it seems like there will always be a next. I feel very old, and I feel like a burden to my wonderful husband who only 15 years ago fell in love with a vibrant, happy, creative, funny, afraid-of-nothing auburn haired firecracker. I am no longer that woman. I feel so much like less than I was.

I tell myself that this will pass, that this abject sadness is all the drugs. Narcotics and steroids can make you think crazy things. I tell myself that maybe not tomorrow or the next day, but that maybe the day after that I will feel different. I used to have faith that I am a good judge of myself and that I am smart enough and honest enough to usually be right. I tell myself a lot of things in my head. But I am also a woman of extremes these days. This morning, with soft pink light in the sky, I am a woman of extremes. In just the last 30 minutes I have gone from Tammy Wynette to the Butthole Surfers as I sit here wiping my tears and drippy nose on my sweater. I’ve never been one of those women who is beautiful when they cry.

They were all in love with dyin’
They were doing it in Texas

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