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Let's talk about opioids. Who said they hurt people? I’m an opioid addict, and I never hurt anyone. Well okay, anyone other than myself. Sure, I landed in the emergency room five times after overdosing on them. I don’t necessarily call that hurting myself. It was like playing some iteration of solitaire, only with my friends Vicodin, Codeine and Morphine. Valium was my initial numbing drug of choice. When opioids merrily came along, they were more efficient (an upgrade if you will) in my path to feeling nothing so I shifted gears, gobbling those pills for years on end. Yet, somehow, I’ve been on the straight and narrow for four decades. Still, my history follows me wherever I go. In my mid-to-late 70s, I made myriad visits to the hospital for inexplicable reasons. Each time, upon entry, the stern hospital triage nurse queried about my drug history. "It's complicated; how much time do you have?" is how I usually responded. You know, to break the ice. Their days are long, but mine are longer. The slogan “once a drug addict always a drug addict” is true. I know that in my bones. And yet ... . When people know you are a former drug addict or alcoholic, they make assumptions about you that are not always true. Some of my best friends are sober, some are not. When does the labeling stop? We are not let off the hook for past digressions. Ever. My current dilemma is this: as an addict suffering from a chronic illness, namely Parkinson's disease* (but for argument's sake, consider cancer, ALS, etc.), should I be denied relief in the form of painkillers? When does the patient get to say to the doctor: ”Enough is enough! Bring on the pain relief measures, including but not limited to opioids!" As of this writing, I am suffering from Parkinson’s and diabetes. It's the opposite of wonder-twin powers activate which is to say it's hell on earth all day, but mostly at night. Who decides who gets pain medicine and who doesn’t? God? Doctors? Me? The correct answer, in these times, is draconian doctors. Since I was diagnosed with Parkinson's in 2022, believe me when I tell you that I've bargained. "What if the drugs are kept under lock and key and only administered through my health team?" "Nope, it may lead to active addiction," Dr. Jane Doe said, depriving me of a dignified, pain-free death yet again. Bullcrap! I wake up every morning in pain (if I was fortunate enough to sleep for a few hours the night before). Insomnia is my cross to bear. Dr. Jane Doe also refuses to give me meds to sleep because, she says, I could become a fall risk. As if I’m not already. Better I should be perpetually tormented by sleeplessness. I should send her video of me pacing throughout my home, startling the dog, at 2 a.m. on the regular. I should share episodes of me falling asleep in the middle of conversations. Insomnia does not bring restorative powers to my system. We all need a strong immune system and insomniacs don’t have one. Now that I am infirm, all I want to do is boost my immunity by getting a good night's sleep while not screaming in pain in the wee hours (to one one, in vain) when my back hurts. I'm a recovering alcoholic who does not want to die in pain. Mea culpa. More power to the people on this planet who have not taken aspirin for pain—who grin and bear it. I’m no better or worse than you despite my labels. For today, I’m a recovering alcoholic/addict who is tired of being in pain and happens to believe that my God approves of pharmaceutical interventions. * a chronic brain disorder that affects movement, mental health, and other systems in the body. er that affects movement, mental health, and other systems in the body
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I was shy, scared and forty when I walked into my first AA meeting in search of a safety net. Suffice it to say I did not jump in with both feet. Everything frightened me…people, spiders, Arby’s hamburgers. Yet I persisted with the program that first year, invisible by design. I strategically snuck in late and early out of the hushed rooms. People came to know that the corner chair in the last row was for me. I understood the assignment, as it were, and the fact we got karmic points for participation. Yet I maintained a stone-like detachment, never sharing my experiences, much less my emotions. Not surprisingly, no one threw me that net. Change came for me nonetheless, like it comes for everyone who goes to AA meetings long enough. Wendy, my soon-to-be best friend, made eye-contact while I was studiously avoiding eye contact but also leaning in ever so slightly to convey engagement with the raw, gut-wrenching material. Her spidey-sense registered how frightened and lonely I was. "Hi," she started, "any interest in blowing this pop-stand in favor of a small, women-only meeting at my friend's apartment in West Hollywood?" Sounds terrifying, I thought. "Sure," I said. We drove together the following Wednesday. And every Wednesday thereafter for ten years. The elderly woman who whipped open the door was reminiscent of my mother. The occasion felt formal as evidenced by my stiff spine and quivering upper lip. I resisted the urge to salute our host. “I am Eleanor,” she said, below piercing blue eyes and a shock of gray, majestic waves. Very put together. "Char," I murmured. When she hugged me hello, my carefully-constructed exoskeleton evaporated. I would follow this woman anywhere. Her apartment was nondescript. The people therein were not. Wednesdays became a ritual, a new addiction. I held on for dear life. Eleanor embraced me physically, emotionally and spiritually, unlike a certain mother of mine. I couldn’t wait for Wednesday nights to roll around, so I could get my hugs. I became a first-rate hugger thanks to her. Periodically, she would send me actual letters in the mail (handwritten—on stationary!) telling me how much she loved me. It occurred to me while ripping one open: This is how people love. One of my many fond memories of Eleanor was the fact that despite her world-class hugging, she was no gourmand. Thus, we ate at a nearby restaurant together before each Wednesday meeting. Eleanor love her condiments, drenching her food without exception. When she died, I stopped eating all sauces in solidarity. I didn't want to feel the nagging, stabbing sense of loss each time I indulged in Sriracha. Hindsight is great because you get a new lens. I now understand that Eleanor was my surrogate mother, gifting me two things I never had in my family of origin: belonging and a voice. In my first family, I was the little girl with the big bow in my hair who didn’t know how to open her mouth (having not been encouraged to do so). In my chosen family, I could say it loud and clear and be loved unconditionally. I have Wendy to thank for the introduction to Eleanor, and Eleanor to thank for instilling me with the knowledge that I'm worthy of hugs, love, redemption...and extra sauce.  Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash
When you're sick, inside and out, your life is governed by more questions than answers. I'm permanently perplexed. Why me? Why am I anxious, without fail, when the clock strikes six p.m.? Why am I afraid to give myself permission to feel okay for just one damn minute? When will my ruminating, futurecasting, catastrophizing give way to gratitude, serenity, inner peace? What’s going on with me? My handwriting is tiny and getting tinier. It's Lilliputian, for garden gnomes and wood nymphs. It's also a hallmark of Parkinson’s. I command my hand to write bigger letters, but it won't. The synapses are not synapting (not a word, but I like the rhythm of the sentence). More questions. What the hell is happening to my handwriting? What would cure me, of course, is a whole bottle of something other than Tylenol. I'm so over the placebo directive from my phalanx of medical professionals: Take two Tylenol and call me in the morning. It's as if my doctors can't hear the words behind my words. Words like: I want to be loved. I want to be healthy. I want to live. It's been 35 years since I've been laid. They say use it or lose it and I'm afraid I've lost it. Three and half decades is a long time and yet, I'm not altogether lonely. I have people and for that, I'm fortunate. Romance is decidedly overrated and anxiety-inducing for septuagenarians, but secretly I know it would be fun to try. I would be all-in and dress the part, from my Chanel shoes to my Johnny Was tunic, before sharing certain things about myself. The sartorial splendor would perhaps distract my would-be prince from certain inquiries -- like, how's your mental health? How's your physical health? Your brain chemistry? Do you have any mommy issues? Daddy issues? So there it is. I've figured out one thing as least. While being in an intimate relationship would provide a welcome distraction, the would-be suitor's questions would inevitably compound my questions, resulting in a life rife with endless inquiries. It's safer to stay right here, reciting The Serenity Prayer, trying to forget my family-of-origin story while focusing on my chosen family here and now.  Photo by Drew Dempsey on Unsplash
I'm shaking. Out of control. I can barely write. The pen is not doing what my brain wants it to do. I pivot to Lucky during these nocturnal panic episodes. I wonder if he beholds a monster in front of him. I am unrecognizable to myself; he hopefully does not see the me that I see. I long to see the me that was once a young girl with the wide world in front of her. A family with means (if no beating heart). A kingdom for the taking. She swung for the stars and landed on her ass, in rehab. Not once, not twice, but three times (the third not being the charm but rather the bridge to a lesser, more narrow, contained and controlled life sans additives or pill-fueled days). In this particular episode of Nights with Char Char, the nausea precipitates the sweating which, in turn, perpetuates the shaking. A trifecta of attractive attributes. I know the waves will pass but when I'm in it, it feels like I'm drowning, helpless. I consider getting down on my knees (but they don't bend that far) to pray. I would say something like: Forgive me, God, and please help me. Help me relax, relaX, relAX, reLAX, rELAX, RELAX. Help me be more patient with everyone and my dog ... and myself. Help me feel less trapped, suffocated. I'm keenly aware of Step 1: I am powerless and my life has become unmanageable. Spinning in place, I consider riding my stationary bike knowing that I would be tempted to turn on the TV in front of it. I'd stare into the middle distance absorbing news of the outside world which is an unmitigated dumpster fire on every level. That potent reminder would, of course, make me more anxious. God would undoubtedly send me a coded message by way of reply. Something like: Focus on the fact that your blood pressure is okay right now. You're welcome. Please give peace a chance. You're blessed; act like it. The attitude of gratitude is not my natural default, needless to say, so I would appreciate the reminder and promise to try. To do better. To accept the things I cannot change, blah blah. At 4:12 a.m., it dawns on me that my mental illness will utterly defeat me. With that epiphany, I want to crawl into Lucky's crate with him. But my walls are my crate, my container. Why don't I feel safe within them ... in my skin, body, home? I strived for so long to make everything in my house perfect. From the silk curtains to the top-tier dog to the Chanel shoes. In the end it turned out that the only imperfect fixture in my tableau—shaking, sweating and nauseous—was me. God, grant me the serenity to accept the things i cannot change, the courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference. |
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