My skin is tissue, tearing with every strong wind and harsh word. In life I muddle through the day somehow, and no one is the wiser. Nights are the worst. Virtual contact is the worst. Spoken words wither and dry once they leave someone's lips. All trace is gone by the next day. Written words last longer. I only have to reread something, and the tissue tears anew. My lifeline is still away on the second leg of his vacation. I miss him.
I've stopped taking the oxycontin. I only have to make it through to Thursday and the neurosurgeon appointment. The physical pain is easily born at the moment. I know enough medicine to know to continue taking the prednisone as prescribed. It is unhealthy to simply stop taking pred. You have to be weaned off of it. My body can manage the pain, but the pred tears my head apart.
The paranoid in me wonders if they whisper "druggie" behind my back. Yet how can I deny it? I'll be taking drugs every day for the rest of my life. Twice a day, for each day left to me. What's a few pills more or less? Add a few pain pills to the immunosupprssants. Add some H+ blockers to the pile. And hey, let's throw a calcium channel blocker on top for laughs. And can't forget that blood thinner. God, what is it now? Nine pills in the morning, Seven or eight pills in the evening, depending on what day it is. My life is inextricably looped around a pill vial more than any drunk's is wound about a bottle. I suppose it's only a matter of time until someone other than myself notices.
And while I'm being paranoid, let's talk depression. Actually, I don't need to talk it ... the prednisone is doing just fine talking for me. Ah crap, the prednisone. Change that count up there to ten pills in the morning; I forgot about the pred. I need a bigger pill box.
The Kitten wants to go to bed She's been circling me like some crazed satellite looking for a chance for re-entry. Come on, Kitten. Let's crash and burn together and go to bed. Maybe the world will look a little better tomorrow.
Why do I let them get to me?