@Daughter of Dionysus Since this fucking shrink has made my life unbearable (I think, I must have been told about it more than one can bear)
and wanted me to go to the detox to get off benzos (he sure is gonna prescribe me tons of these shitty deadeners/brainfuckers instead-he's really good in it) OR deny my take homes completely,
what is a real drudgery, completely inacceptable to me, and it'd turn my life into a one big mess.
I can't do much as my hands are tied for an obvious reason, but I'm going to do my best (or worst)
not to let this scum get away with it-even if it means nothing but just my own satisfaction not to crap out in what I decided.
I said my way or highway dude, cos I'm playing this fucking game so long I'm practically PhD of narcology, and definitely too long to let
one ignorant dumbass tell me what is good and what isn't to me.
I was trying to explain him my relationship with drugs ('done) is exactly as personal as the bonds of love&sex used to be
,
I mean I'm that one who decide where, when, how long, how big, and how much,
you know, one day I have whim to do it once but to the hilt, so to say (like until I'm getting a nod)
another one twice, but gentle, or with two different strangers (like to come with a subtle glow)
there's nothing in it what could be schedulded in any form or so,
it's how it works, sex and drugs and rock'n'roll,
so do me a favor and get the fuck of my bedroom, so to say
.
So now I'm struggling with making decision to start switching for a bupe.
Though I remember it being not any big deal last time I did it,for some reason since over 2 months I'm postponing being like
"today is a PERFECT day to start transition, but my higher self tells me that TOMORROW is going to be
way way better. I'd bet I can feel it in my guts." You know this old worn routine.
Well, apparently I have NO GUTS enough to do it.
I make my first attempt yesterday, after my partner said it's the highest time.
It was completely disaster. I still can feel the "flashbacks" today. Not sure what was going wrong.
Started feeling a little bit sick already, yawning, sneezing, and craving and all,
as I was working on my PC, occasionally taking a briefly but greedy looks alternately, at my poor methadone' stash and these fucking pills I didn't trust to,
without being able to decide what should I do.
Finally considered my feeling to be "bad enough" to take a risk and enter the experiment.
Well, apparently it wasn't "bad enough".
'cos about 15 minutes after the pills got absorbed in my mouth I found myself feeling kinda oddly, unpleasant uptight,
my heart started beating faster, the w/d symptoms seemed not only not to be reduced but even to improve/increase...wtf?
I expected this nice rush and excitement, the same one I always appreciate so much with a bupe,
and an opiate' relief and what I was given instead?
As I looked into a mirror and saw my eyes wide open and pupils as dilated as I'd worn some vampire' like lenses,
I realized "things are fucking far from OK" and started freaking out as hell.
My bf told me there's no reason to fall into panic, he was kinda the same way short after he did them and now it's SURVIVABLE (LOL),
it's an acute, bothersome but transient reaction for a switch, and tends to get stable
"just take some fresh air, you're going to be ok soon", he said.
I don't know what has posessed me, but I entered the next door bar and ordered a drink,
instead of some fresh air,
the stupidest idea ever,
in kinda futile hope to imitate/follow the usual, daily habit might be helpful.
It wasn't, and after the first sip of drink I realized I'm sick and horrendous craving-maybe even more than sick.
I was looking forward this unique combaining of warmth, glow, sense of safety and nice-tasting paralysing that opiates+vodka provides you with.
But it wasn't there. As if alcohol "didn't answer" the call of opiates, or the other way.
I "rinsed" an alcohol with a modest sip of the 'done (thank God I was smart enough to have it by my hand,I was about to run out of,though, so I'd prefer not to split/part with so stupid way),
I felt full of disgust and beating myself for I "cracked at it".
I got back home and got my partner's haid upside for what he told to me.
Methadone seemed "not to pick up the call", still. Fucking oddly, felt as if I were under some bad (or good) spell,
insisting to save my soul.
Things putting altogether has definitely driven me completely mad. I got some mild blackout so I hardly remember this evening, excepting I have shaved
my eyebrows with a blunt razor...(well, I never liked them, but not sure what wrong "drawn" eyebrows have to do with
some dumbass' doc ignorance-apparently the both things must have something common;))
plus
that I was in one
of my murderous moods (well, maybe the shaving was kinda unawared referance to the movie "TaxiDriver" or "The Wall"...).
I have no clue about alcohol&cocaine/stims, but it's how I figure myself the "worst edition of it ever".
I barely remember as I was raving like "I wish I would live in Russia or US or wherever carrying weapon and handling a gun is pretty common...I'd be gathering few guys,
paying them generous and we'd blow this fucker's (doc) head away together, obviously after having some long, thoroughly, nice chat with him
to straighten him a little before he's biting a dust..." LOL
(definitely too much Tarantino's)
Still can feel this fucking antiagonists fighting my methadone. Such a waste, as I'm about to run out.
...looks I'm in some real troubles
I need to make it, one way or another unless I'd be fucked up.