Once the Drugs are Done...I feel like Dying

I want to say before I write this post, that I'm not looking to be judged. I know that opening my personal life up on the internet is asking for a bunch of assholes to make me feel like shit, but I'm going to write about this subject anyway, and just hope for support instead of assholes making me feel worse.

About a year ago, I was prescribed a prescription pain killer. Who am I to say I didn't enjoy pretty much every moment of being on that pain killer. It was a bottle of some pretty strong shit, and it had a bunch of refills. Yes. It was a narcotic. Yes. I kept taking it even after I wasn't in physical pain anymore.

After some time, I realized I wasn't taking these pills for pain at all anymore. I would take them like clockwork first thing in the morning. After lunch, I'd take them. Before bed, I'd take a couple more. So, three times a day, without being in pain or even getting high for that matter, I was pumping myself full of narcotics. My doctor kept refilling my prescription, without asking me how my pain was doing.

A few months ago, it hit me. I'm addicted to prescription pain medication. I spoke with my doctor about this, and she assured me that it would be better to "ween" me off of the medications instead of just quitting cold turkey. She told me that it would be painful and I probably wouldn't stick to it. Slowly I began to "ween" off of the pills, when it hit me again. I just, can't, do this. I told her I wasn't ready to "ween" so sure enough, she said "No problem" and gave me my prescriptions back. At the time I was thinking of what a cool doctor I have. Now I'm looking back thinking what an idiot she is. Why the fuck would she allow me to stay addicted? Why wouldn't she tell me to suck it up and get off of them before it got any worse?

It got worse. I don't walk around high. I don't get high at all. but when I don't take my prescription pills, I can't function. I sweat. I shake. I vomit. It's like all the symptoms of every flu you've had all thrown into one fucked up flu that there's no cure for, except for taking my damn pills.

Today I took the first step. Over the past few weeks I've been looking into programs and trying to find a place that helped to treat this addiction. I honestly don't feel alone in this. It's more common than I thought for people to become addicted to these medications and for doctors to keep the addiction going by doling out more pills with stronger prescriptions instead of helping their patient. I went to have blood drawn this afternoon, and Thursday I'll be starting a methadone detox program. I've been told by a few people I know, that this isn't the way to go. A lot of people are concerned for me, becoming just as addicted to methadone as I am to these pills, but I can't imagine myself, as young as I am, flushing my life down the toilet for an addiction that I know I can beat before it gets any worse than it already is.

For now my plan is to start the program this Thursday. (I have to go in under complete withdrawal symptoms, which is something that I've never let happen, and it scares me to death) I'll have an intake and they'll give me my first dose. It's supposed to completely wipe out all symptoms of withdrawal within half an hour and the dose will last me 24 hours. I will have to go in every morning, as long as I'm part of the program. Since my insurance doesn't cover "detox" I'll be on "maintenance" instead. So instead of a 21 day program, I'll set up a treatment plan and detox over the next 4 months instead of 1.

I hope everyone that reads this blog understands how hard it was for me to write this post. It's going to be a pretty bumpy road over the next few months, but I hope everyone is here for me and understands that this could've happened to any of you, just like it has to me.

The Baby Itch

Well, I got the phone call I’ve been waiting on for a while: two of my best friends in the world are finally having a baby. They'd been trying forever, it seems, and they're very happy to be one month along. They keep repeating that they know they aren't "out of the woods," which only strengthens that myth of storks leaving babies in gardens and cabbage patches way out in the middle of nowhere (or "the nowhere", as my newly-pregnant friend was mocked for saying). I always imagined mothers crawling through thorny vines and poison ivy, shielding their tiny infants in their hands, both faces streaked in mud until they both found a warm home. So really, finding out when I was a little bit older, that I instead came from a belly was a relief.

Anyway, my cousin is due to have her baby in about a month and a half. My friend had another baby a few months ago. A guy that works in my Mom's office just got forced into marriage because he 'accidentally' got his girlfriend pregnant. Stars are having babies left and right. One of my other friends is trying with his wife, too. "Forever!" I said to him the other night. "You're having a kid forever. It's not just some kind of summer thing or like, a five-day rental. Forever."

He nodded with that look that says, "I love it. But hey, run while you've still got the chance."

Why don't I have the baby itch? Particularly with the way everyone on television wants to remind me lately that my insides are ticking away like the stopwatch on 60 Minutes and how I've only got so many years left before it's too late!!!!!. Even scare tactics aren't working on me. Sure, I get all cutesy when I see an adorable baby do something so adorably babyish, like chew on a fist or point at me when I cross my eyes and wiggle my nose at him or her. But there's no ache inside, no pull with a whisper, "Baaaaaay-beeeeeee."

Nothing. In fact, that tiny voice inside me often says, "Oh, thank God. No baby. Whew. Can you imagine?"

I'm exhausted from a day that involves waking up, showering and dealing with the basics of day to day life. I was exhausted after trying to take a cell phone call inside of a building with shitty reception because the call was to cancel an appointment and I couldn't quite make out what was being said. That was exhausting to me. Clearly I'm not ready for any kind of responsibility involving another person's upbringing for the rest of my life. The rest of my life. I get irritated when the dogs climb over me in the middle of the night, almost pushing me out of bed. I honestly don’t think that I have the patience motherhood requires at this point in time.

Sometimes it makes me feel like a bad person, though. I feel like I'm not being a good enough woman, that I'm not trying to hurry up, get married, buy a house, "settle down" and start a family. "Settle down." That's what my Mom would always say to my sister and me when we were jumping on our mattress or running through the house playing Tag.

"Girls!! Settle down!"

It meant, "Quit acting like a fucking idiot and shut up!" Now it means, "Quit pretending you don't want what we all have. It's why you're on this earth. You're supposed to sit still and be quiet and let someone else be loud and obnoxious for a change. You're done. Be done. Just sit still for once."

Settle down. Buy a house. Stop renting. Stop chasing. Start planning for a future. Get a savings account. Invest. Get a CD that doesn't have Flogging Molly on the cover. The kind I can't touch until I'm in my fifties.

I can't imagine stopping my life and changing every aspect to raise a child. I just can’t imagine how I would do that. And the fact that I'm not even slightly upset at the thought of not doing that someday makes me feel a little guilty. Then I feel guilty about feeling guilty. I want to rock all girl power and say that I don't need a family/child to validate my womanhood. I don't need a family/child to prove that I'm good enough, that I've been Chosen by a male to breed with. I don't need the world to carry on my seed... or egg... or whatever it is that we say when...shit, you know what I mean.

I'm just not done yet. I don't want to raise someone when I'm not even sure how to take care of myself. I don't think it's responsible to bring another human into this world when I have no idea when exactly I'll get my next paycheck. How do people do it? How does everyone do it? And why am I not even slightly pulled in that direction?

I know that it's OK to feel this way, but I'm surprised that it even bothers me sometimes. I surprise myself when I fantasize about weddings and houses and sweet couple moments that come from years of life together, memories together and that look you give each other when you remember that you were there for that first wrinkle next to his eye and you've been there as the rest of them arrived. I know it's kind of hokey that I think about cakes and music and large gatherings of people celebrating love and birth and the joy of life. I want it in bits and moments. I just don't know if I want it every single day.

I'm a lousy babysitter. I'm good with children, but not in the motherly sense...I’m the "cool babysitter." I whine right along with them, wishing even more than they do that Mom or Dad would come home soon. I'll want to eat ice cream for dinner and 9 times out of 10 I let them convince me that it's a good idea. We watch scary movies and stay up too late and fall asleep on the couch in our clothes with our shoes on the good pillows and the dog on the nice sofa.

The thought of having a child sick and needing a doctor scares the crap out of me. Holding a crying child, knowing that there's an infection and the kid doesn't understand pills or medicine and all it knows is pain, pain, pain and it's my job to make the kid feel better but secretly I'm just worried I'm going to catch it too? I'd be at my Mom's door so fast and so often that she'd move and not tell me.

Never. Not once. I've never genuinely wished I had a baby. I've never envied someone else's child. I've never been curious what my child would look like. The only time I've even thought about what I'd name a kid was back in high school and some of the names I came up with were so lousy that I'll never tell anyone what they were. I don't look at baby clothes and say "Aww, if I had a little girl I’d put her in this." I don't inhale deeply when I pass a Baby Gap. I don't rub the bellies of pregnant women when I see them in public. (Or in private, for that matter…) I still get a little uncomfortable at the sight of a woman breastfeeding a baby. I get a little uncomfortable at the thought of someone else going through labor. The thought of me going through labor makes me sweat with fear. I'm not even curious. I'm not even slightly interested.

When I moved into my last place, I bought some furniture and started trying out new dishes, making cookies and cooking things I've always wanted to try. Someone tilted her head to the side and said, "Oh, you're nesting. So cute."

No, I needed bookshelves for my books and I've never had a big kitchen before. I'd have cooked if I didn't always have the counter space of a dorm room. It's not nesting. One month later it wasn't even safe for the kids I watched to nap on the floor. I'm not a very clean person when I’m extremely busy. I used to think I wasn't that bad, but now I know I used to live with messier people, or clean people that picked up my stuff too. I've never seen before just how much of a slob I can be when I don’t have someone I pay to clean. Nesting always reminds me of the end of Sesame Street when Big Bird would tuck his beak into his armpit and start snoring. What I do is more like Bird's neighbor Oscar, noisy basement and all.

So, I don't want a baby. That doesn't make me a bad person. That doesn't mean I'm less of a woman. Get off my case. Maybe I'm just being the responsible one. I'm leaving more space for your baby. Now my baby won't steal your baby's spot in college. My baby won't make your baby feel insecure, or break your baby's heart someday at a dance. My baby won't be at a stoplight when your baby hits my baby's car because your baby was jamming out to a CD while talking on a cell phone, and now your baby's insurance premiums won't go up. My baby won’t sell weed to your baby on the schoolyard. I'm just making your world for your baby a better place without my baby around to make your baby feel secondary. You're welcome, by the way.

So I guess this means I'm a pretty great woman. A selfless woman. A woman who won't bore you with baby stories and pester you to babysit. A woman who's always available for a night out or a quick cup of mid-day coffee. I'm the woman you can call in the middle of the night or the middle of the morning and I won't scold you for waking anybody. When you come to my house there will be an 89% less chance that you will be puked or peed on (unless you get me really drunk). I can loan you a book that doesn't have any pages torn out, scribbled on, or chewed off. I will not serve you a Cosmo in a fucking sippy cup. You will never have to watch me clean my son's tiny penis with a wet nap and then sing a song about my son's tiny penis to his tiny penis while you search the room for something to stare at instead. I won't ask you what I should do about my sore nipples (unless they’re really cold or I had a really great night the night before). I'm not going to be the woman who only half listens to you because I'm listening to the baby monitor near your head. Most importantly, I won't be the woman who tells you that you aren't really a woman until you have kids. I'm not going to be that lady that gives you that pity look and says, "Oh, they just make it all make sense, you know? They give your life meaning. Direction. A purpose."

I believe you are important even if you don't have a baby. I promise to never make you think otherwise. I do believe in you, just as hard as I believe in me. Together, we don't have to have babies to be somebodies. We're just as valid in this world, even if we don't need a booster seat or high chair at a restaurant. We're worth staring at in the street, even if we're not pushing a tiny version of ourselves in a stroller. We are strong, independent women who are beautiful, talented, marvelous creatures. And when we read Charlotte's Web or James and the Giant Peach at night we don't read it out loud, but to ourselves. It's still good.

And I promise not to judge you with babies if you promise to not judge those of us without. I won't ask you what it's like to lose what I can only imagine is your personal identity if you promise not to comment on how empty and lonely my life must be.

Just in case I someday change my mind, however, Simba (the chihuahua) is keeping me in prime condition. Every single night, right in the dead middle of the night, he finds a way to wake me up. I haven't slept through a full evening in over a year. I do believe after these dogs, babies are going to be a breeze. I’m entitled to change my mind, but right now, this is where my mind is at, and I don’t understand people can't respect that.

Whoa. This post ended up really long. SORRY!

Are you Smarter than a 2nd Grader?

I went to my Gramma's house the other day and played with my little cousin. We both have our little pink Nintendo DS, so we synced them and played together. She loves that I have all the cool games. So while we were playing Donkey Kong and I was kicking her 8 year old rotten sweet ass, she asked if she could play alone. Kids. Hmph. Fine. She just got tired of losing. Ha! So we traded games. Of course the only thing that my uncle buys her are lame educational games, so I figured, how hard can a kid's educational game be? I mean she's 8...right? Wrong. Big Brain Academy...that's the name of the game. Sounds like a little pussy game, right? Wrong again.

A picture of my spoiled adorable little cousin playing with her DS.

Here I am all whizzing through the practice test and shit, going fast as fuck and not getting all of them any of them wrong. I'm like, yeah, I'm the fuckin' man woman. I've got the same warm feeling as when I was beating her ass at Donkey Kong. Go me! So the little guy pops up and tells me how much my brain weighs. I'm not going to say what he told me, because I'm actually embarrassed. Not only does my brain weigh about as much as a coffee cup, I got a D+. A fucking D+! Let me add that I had a full academic scholarship to an Ivy League University, and I scored brilliantly on my LSATS. I was pissed. I figured I just didn't know the mechanics of the game and I needed to pick my speed up a little. So I tucked the DS into my pocket and left without giving the game back. Shut up. I didn't steal her game. She's happy as a clam with Donkey Kong. Obviously she knew I had the game, anyway. She thought she was getting over on me by keeping Donkey Kong. I bet she got tired of being told she has a little brain too.

That night, I took the game out while everyone in the house was sleeping, and I began to play. I played, until my hands hurt and my fingers bled. OK. Not really. But I played for about 4 hours because when I looked up it was well after 3:00 am. No sooner did I look up that I got this dizzy throbbing sensation in my head and stomach. It was something like car sickness. I'm thinking to myself, fuck...I think I'm gonna barf. I don't know why it is when I feel sick, I always wait until the last possible moment to get up and go to the bathroom. Maybe it's the thought that I might overcome the feeling and not barf at all. This wasn't one of those times. I waited and waited, until I knew there was no overcoming the feeling and I ran to the bathroom fumbling for the switch, remembering just a little too late that the light bulb was out, and projectile vomited in the dark right into my toilet. I'm talented I tell you. Can't you just hear the Mexican guy on TV screaming "GOOOOOOOAL!" Needless to say, after all those hard hours of playing Big Brain Academy, not only did my brain seem to shrink, but I'm now battling carpel tunnel syndrome and arthritis in my 20s. (I have managed to work my way up to a C though.)

I don't understand why they have all the games they have for kids today. Look at the show, Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader. I do better on that show than I do on the brain game, but nothing makes grown men look more stupid than not knowing their fractions or 3rd grade Geography. I guess what else bothers me, is when I was a little girl, kids seemed a hell of a lot smarter, even without all this high tech bullshit. I grew up on Top Ramen and cartoons where little blue men skipped around singing and ran from a one toothed villain and his cat, and I turned out just fine. Even if that stupid game says I have a brain the size of a pea. In my opinion, the "Super Size Me" Generation is doomed.

Drama Queens Should Never Shop Alone

I only went into the damn store to pick up cigarettes. I do it all the time. I really do. I go into that store. All. The. Time. This, was not supposed to happen.

I bumped into my ex in aisle 2. Well, I almost did. I would have if I had taken three steps more. First I should say that I don't normally even go down aisle two, but I reminded myself that I needed bottled water, and I can never remember what fucking aisle it's in, even though I buy it, weekly. It wasn't in aisle two. Anyway...I heard his voice as I was looking down and I snapped my head up fast enough that I was able to dodge behind a display of Christmas shit that hasn't sold yet. Please never remind me when I'm old and gray that I hid from an ex-boyfriend behind a Santa missing an arm and a tooth colored black with a marker, while my nose dripped and I was too scared to make a noise, so I just let it.

There he was, standing there, like we never dated, talking on his cell phone. Didn't we divvy up California after we broke up? I thought so. I still take weekend visits to San Francisco, therefore northern California is mine. He told me he was moving, anyway...What was he doing in my half of the state?

There was something about not being prepared to see him that yanked my insides down and pulled me back behind that decrepit Santa.

He was talking on the phone to someone, laughing every few seconds about some story that I wasn't getting to hear. He pushed his hair back behind his ear and leaned forward, looking in the air, with a slightly annoyed, worried look on his face and trying to improve his reception. It's his new girlfriend on the phone. It's all I could think at the time. It had to be. She was probably telling him all about her day, and babbling on about the most mundane things in the world, and of course he looked absolutely charmed by every syllable that came out of her mouth. Maybe he craves her like that. When she talks, he doesn't float away like he would when I'd talk about some shit that happened at work because he just misses her, that much.

She's probably absolutely perfect, with one of those kick-ass lifestyles. She's smart and talented, with a car. A shiny car that never breaks down. And, um, food always comes out of the oven on time and cooked perfectly. I bet the bitch bakes her own bread. From scratch. Something I've never, ever been able to do. She probably has one of those bodies that bounces back after childbirth (10 times), and she never, ever has to go to the gym. She's just always skinny. She probably always has perfectly crispy clean sheets that she irons, and she recycles everything. Even newspaper. She has the perfect dog that catches Frisbees in the park, instead of my slightly neurotic dog that can't quite grasp the idea of fetch. She gives the best back rubs and blow jobs and never demands that he reciprocate. She doesn't eat much, but when she does, it's the sexiest thing he's ever seen. I bet her name is something incredibly sexy, like Holly, Yvette, or Tiffany. She cums the second he's inside her and she's always left satisfied.

And then it happened, as it often does in these parts. He lost the call. I heard him shout "Hello?!?!" a couple of times before closing the flip phone. The signal must have faded.

Would he call her immediately back? Would he stop the next shopper he saw, demanding to use his or her cell phone to call her back and tell her how sorry he was that they were interrupted? Would he run out of the store, leaving his cart full of perishables to be by her side as soon as possible? What would he do?

He shrugged. Made one of those, 'whatever' faces and shoved the phone back into his pocket. I guess it wasn't Tiffany. Or maybe Yvette doesn't excite him enough that he needs to call her back immediately.

Or maybe, just maybe, he still wished the girl on the other line was me.


Infinite X's and O's...

-SCG

I'm not a sicky NO MORE!

I'm feeling better. Hear that? Better!

Anyway, I couldn't stand seeing the sick post on top, anymore, so I'm just posting this until later this evening. New post on the way.

Oh, and thanks for all the well wishes, balloons and porn that found its way to my inbox. Most of it was appreciated.

Infinite X's and O's...

-SCG


Also, I did that little tag that was going around and it came out pretty cool, so I figured I'd post it.

Here are the rules and links for anyone else that would like to try:

1. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:Random The first article title on the page is the name of your band.
2. http://www.quotationspage.com/random.php3 The last four words of the very last quote is the title of your album.
3. http://www.flickr.com/explore/interesting/7days/ The third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.
4. Use your graphics program of choice to throw them together


Here you have it!

I'm a Sicky

I had this really great post planned for today. I'm not going to write it.

I'm a sicky. Super duper sicky. I can hardly breathe without something leaking out of me. My body hurts. My head hurts. I have a fever. I can't breathe. (I know I mentioned that but it deserves more note since it's probably the worst part.)

I want balloons. People stopped sending me balloons. Since I'm a sicky, I deserve fucking balloons, don't you think?

*cough cough...sniff sniff*

Who says Football isn't Fun?

This is my least favorite time of the year because of all the fucking football. If you ever saw as much football as I've had to watch, you might just start crying.

Let me tell you this much...people have NO idea that I actually can't stand football. They don't know how I find it repetitive and boring. How have I done this? How have I tricked people that have known me my whole life into thinking I'm the coolest girl, ever? Because I'm an absolute expert at faking the football orgasm. Mm mm... Because I really am the coolest girl alive. Because I can.

That's right folks. I can wiggle, scream and cheer with the best of 'em. I can spill beer and throw chips and just about paint my face red white and blue every weekend. It's not just a game for me. It's an art form. Now, I'm willing to share some secrets because I think we're all friends here, now, aren't we? Plus I strongly believe that this will contribute to happy, healthy relationships.

Now, if you break any of the following rules, it will be obvious that you're faking it, so be very careful.

1. Don't walk in front of the television while the ball is in play, while they're doing an instant replay, or while the ball is at something called "the line of scrimmage."

2. Walk (and by "walk", I mean "RUN") past the television only during commercials.

2a. If you're watching the Super Bowl, fuck it. Stay away from the television at all times. Pee before the game starts.

3. Offer beers to everyone when you stand up. You'll be the coolest girl there, and it's still a semi feminist move if you're already on your way to get your own beer.

4. Be familiar with shouting the words "asshole" and "pussy."

5. When the ref throws the flag (it's yellow), start shouting possible reasons why. Try "FOUL!" "Pass interference!" or "face mask!" Don't worry, the boys will yell, too. Continue shouting through the ref explaining why the flag was thrown, at which point you will stop and ask,"What was the call?" Then you will all argue at what the call must have been.

6. Anytime there is a call against your team, it's time for you to yell, "Oh that's Bullshit!!" Just like that. Try it, it's fun.

7. It's called a touchdown and it's worth 6 points.

8. Then they try to kick to get an extra point. That's worth one. Generally they'll get the extra point. If it's a close game, they may try for two points. We don't have enough time, so I'm going into this here. Just trust me on this: If it's a close game and one team gets a touchdown, say,"Do you think they'll go for two?" This'll cause a boy debate, about field goal and ranges and red zones and things you don't need to worry yourself about. Just sit back and think about how cool you look. You'll make it through this yet.

9. If guys are suddenly really upset, ask them what happened. They'll be more than happy to shout out the injustice of the last play. Let them vent.

10. DO NOT attempt to kiss your boyfriend or significant other at ANY TIME during the game. Do NOT go "TOUCHDOWN!! KISSES!!" You will not get them. People will hate you.

11. NEVER, EVER TOUCH THE REMOTE CONTROL.

12. You don't need to know every athlete, but it helps if you know a few names. Here is the athlete that makes it sound like you know your shit. Ready? Bronco Nagurski. (NA-GUR-SKEE). Is that a great name or what? He played for Notre Dame I think. Or something. Doesn't matter who he is, or was. Just say things like, "Well he's no Bronco Nagurski." What I like saying is, "Well, I was really comparing him to someone like Bronco Nagurski." Chances are, they'll all tip their heads back and say,"Oh. Well yeah. If you're doing that." It works like a fucking charm, I'm telling you.

13. Know that being a girl means that if there is an argument about sports, even if you know you're right, they'll say that you, the girl, are wrong. They will find a loophole in your logic and there's nothing you can do about it, because you have ovaries.

14. You're supposed to be happy about overtime. No grumbling or sighing or pouting. After all, this is football and you love football. Yay for more football!

15. Make sure you know which two teams are playing, because they're gonna switch channels during the commercials. They'll watch other games at the same time, so be on your tippy toes. If you're the only one rooting for the "guys in blue," you could end up cheering for the enemy of a different game. At any moment there might be three different games on TV within an hour. I know. I'm sorry.

16. If, like me, you're ever in a situation where you're in a public place and your significant other is standing in the middle of the bar shouting,"That's what I'm talkin' about! You can't fuck with the -insert team name here-!!" It's completely OK to pretend you don't know him at all. Get someone to buy you a drink.

17. I don't care how persuasive they are. Listen to me and listen good. It's not tradition to take your shirt off when there's a turnover. You don't have to do it.

18. The Super Bowls are counted off in Roman Numerals. Don't say the X's and I's. Hey, I don't know what level of expertise you're on. I'm just checking.

19. If you're watching the Super Bowl, you'll probably have to sit through the pre-game and post-game festivities. It's OK to laugh at the pre-game stuff (which involves a terrible film of some guy making the Super Bowl ring), but it's not OK to laugh at the post-game footage. The levels of beer consumption are so drastically different before and after the game that it's best not to have any reaction that might affect an emotionally vulnerable, boozy sports fan.

20. The season does end eventually. Then you get to watch hockey, basketball and baseball! (these are things you're supposed to be excited about.)

Now go out there and fake it like a pro. You can do it. GO TEAM!

Back without further delay,

-S

p.s. I can't wait to write a little about the past week. We all knew my break wouldn't last, too long, right?