Ten Years Ago
Forty pills in a bottle. I count them when they are fresh and new; they are white and they remind me that I am in control. Prescribed pills. I take them as I should, as the bottle screams: take one table every four hours up to four times a day. Demerol is prescribed for moderate to severe pain. Sometimes, when my world burns to shit, I hurt. My head hurts; my brain hurts. Depression. The bottle sits in the closet. I obsess over it – just one. And then two. And then never again.
Demerol makes you feel like you are floating, sort of like Valium, but a hell of a lot better. Floating and despondent. And I like floating. I can sit still – and I can recognize the pattern. The addict in me, having become complacent, is invading my life. Again.
Fear interrupts the floating and I hide the bottle in the back of my closet where I can find it but I promise myself it will stay. I just cannot throw it away. Maybe I’ll break my ankle one day…maybe. You cannot rule these things out. You just cannot. You need reasons for the reasons.
The bottle lives in the closet for a few weeks. I feel triumphant. The pills, they don’t control me, no, I am in control. I am perfectly fine. I am utterly sober. I promise, I am. If my secret lives in my closet it does not exist. And either do I.