I slept hard all night long until my alarm goes off and rushes me out of that sleep with loud "BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, BEEP. I open my eyes and find myself in my small bedroom on my twin bed inside our small trailer. My feet are cold, I remember turning down the heat last night after getting a bloody nose.
I get up out of bed, and outside the window the sky's are grey with the morning sun not yet over the horizon. I prey for a gray sky all day. The sunlight makes the hole inside me bigger. When the sun is out I pull my black curtains tightly closed, and curl into a ball and read until my eyes wont stay open. With sun over head I feel wounded, like a deer hit by a car with internal injures, and who wants to survive, but can feel its self weakening. Shock setting in, cold, tired. If it falls asleep death will over take the deer. When the sky's are grey and its raining I still feel the hole, but at that moment everyone around me is lazy, and feels like there is no end to the suffering that surrounds them, the suffering that is them.
I know with a new day means a long ride in the Jeep to get my dose of Methadone. I pull on some clean clothes. Clean but not nice. A pair of black pants, a white t-shirt, and my mothers hooded sweat jacket with her name on it, and her rank as a nurse (Erin RN). A sweatshirt she got while working in Hawaii. A city I miss because of the nostalgia that overtakes all my memories the moment something changes. I miss the city. This living in the country in a trailer wears on my moods, my creativity is blocked. Too much overlapping of my life and that of my parents lives.
I'm the only one awake, as I walk out the door. I take in a deep breath of the morning air. Its cold, and hurts my lungs. The birds are chirping, and the horses are up by the house waiting for my father to come out and give them their grains. I walk to the Jeep, and climb inside. I'm glad I put on my mittens. The steering wheel is cold. I turn on the car, and turn the heat all the way up, and the search for my radio station 106.7 the Zone. I hope to hear Nirvana, or Weezer, something good. Instead its new songs, songs that just don't touch me in anyway. I can tell I'm getting old and set in my ways when I listen to new music, only a few songs measure up to what I consider good music. I listen to the bad songs, because with bad come the good, and after so many bad songs a good one is even better than it normally would be.
I'm not paying any attention to how fast I'm going until a little white car passes me. I'm only doing 35 mph in a 55 zone. I'm lost in thought. Yesterday my family and myself quit smoking. I cheated yesterday, but this morning I don't have any cigarettes to cheat with. I have my elbow on the middle console where my parents keep there Merle Haggard, and Patsy Cline CD's. It feels like there is an extra CD in there that is keeping it from shutting all the way. I open it to adjust the CD, and to my surprise I find a pack of my dad cigarettes. He cheated too. I wonder how I'm going to handle this. My mom is the only one of us who actually went without a cigarette yesterday. Yesterday March 26th, it would have been my sister Angie's golden birthday. 26 years old, I think to myself, "God Ang we are getting old." I apologize for cheating on quiting smoking on her golden birthday.
After finding the smokes, I figure I will write a little note on the back of a receipt telling my dad that I found them. Then I take a cigarette from the pack, I have no lighter so I use the car lighter, and light the first cigarette of this morning. I feel a slight pang of guilt, but it passes quickly. I can blackmail my dad with this nugget of information. Something I love to do. Call me evil, call me selfish, call every name in the book and you've hit me on the head. I am all of these things. I look at the speedometer and I'm doing close to 80MPH. I'm already in Green Bay only a few more miles and I'm at the clinic.
Before I get my dose, I have to eat something. As of late I have started a diet. That diet consists of five low fat penutbutter and honey sandwiches on whole grain bread. It works, and its cheap. I only drink skim milk, and I have one Mocha Frappe a week. As I take the exit to the Methadone clinic, I pull into the gas station across the street from the clinic. I grab some skim milk, and a small package of Little Debbie powdered donuts. I would have eatin at home, but we are out of Whole grain bread. I have to eat something before I take the Methadone. If I don't it won't last as long. I'd go to any lenght to keep the Methadone's half life longer.
I leave the gas station, and pull into the clinic parking lot. I quickly eat three of the small powdered donuts, and take a big gulp of my skim milk. I shut off the Jeep, thinking to myself I'll probably miss a good song that will come on while I'm in the clinic. The parking lot is full, which means the clinic is full of people. I'm glad I brought along my book. Still reading Wurthering Heights. Pathetic!
I walk into the clinic, and first I notice the warmth. Body heat coming off all of us waiting to get juiced. Then the smell, such a familiar smell, a smell that I like because it means I'm getting my fix for the day. Every now and again that smell will bring back the memory of the smells that come from a spoon filled with Heroin and water being boiled, this is a smell that absolutely love. To me it smells better than that of a newborns smell of sweet milk and a hint of honey. I can't let myself dwell on such things. Heroin won't touch my brains chemistry after being on Methadone for three years. No highs, no heavenly delights for me. Not unless I get off the Methadone and let myself slide down that slippery hill. Have I learned nothing from my past?
I can't pay attention to the words on the pages of the novel. Thoughts of using swirling around my head like sugar plumbs swirling through a child's mind some 80 years ago on Christmas eve. I sit in my chair, waiting for number to ring for my chance to dose. My eyes are pressed shut, my book open on my lap, my mind wondering. Times seems to fly by. Suddenly I'm startled back to reality, I hear people calling out, "who has number four, does anybody have number four"? I have number four, I jump up. Putting my book back in my purse, pulling out my take home box that is required for my Sunday take home.
I'm at the window where the nurse doles out our doses, and I'm waiting for my dose. She puts in front of me and I grab it fast and swift. I open my mouth, doors to breath, and I inhale the Methadone. I take my rinse and walk away from the window, out the door, and to the Jeep.
I race home, thinking only of writing. Writing this blog, writing another chapter to my book. My book, the only thing I can leave behind, the one thing that will say I lived, I was here on this planet, I existed. If only for a moment, if only to suffer most of the time, sweat blood and tears while writing a book. But after all the suffering, when something good happens it makes it all the more sweeter.
The sky was gray until I pulled into my driveway. Suddenly I was being swallowed whole by the hole. Ripping out my ideas, burning out my desire. I had to run inside, get into my room and shut the curtins tight. Making it black. Pull out the laptop, put a sad movie in, a love story, Eternal Sunshine of the spotless mind, I wished that I had Trainspotting. Eternal Sunshine would have to do. I put it in, but before I watch it, I sign in to my blog and see if I can write at least a bit better than my usual drivel.
I'm not sure how I did. At least I captured a moment. Not a shared moment, until I wrote it down and published the post. Today is not unlike most other days, the majority of my days. The feelings differ from moment to moment, day to day. I hope you enjoyed the narration of my morning.