I look at the clock. Seven hours left. I count my pills again. Today is the ninth, which means that I have another eighteen days until I can get a refill.
I have 18 oxycodone left and another flare-up is just getting started. This leaves me with one pill per day; unfortunately, I often end up taking two, the maximum dose I’m currently allowed. One pill lasts only a few hours and then the symptoms–the overwhelming, uncontrollable tightness in my lower abdomen, the stabbing pain, the feeling that my ovaries have literally been set aflame–begin to fade back in until they’ve become a deafening roar, preventing me from concentrating and leaving me barely able to move. I cannot focus on conversation when I’m in this state; everything is too loud and I want to scream at everyone to shut up and leave me alone to die in a heap on the floor.
I will admit that in the past, I’ve taken opiates for less-than-severe pain flares because my mental state needed a serious boost, and if there’s a drug that’s great for doing that in the short term, it’s oxy. With the pain gone, I become gregarious and upbeat, able to focus and get my work done, to handle–and even enjoy–the company of others. Please note that I am not advocating opiate abuse–it’s ridiculously dangerous and it’s way too easy to build up a tolerance. Also, the damned things are so difficult to get even with a legitimate prescription that it’s hardly worth blowing through your supply in the interest of having a good time.
Since the introduction of lorazepam into my medication stash, I haven’t abused my oxy in the name of keeping my sanity. The benzos flood my system and fill me with a lovely tangible warmth. My lower belly finally relaxes. My hands stop shaking. There are no more tears and the world appears to slow down. My head becomes quiet and I can once again focus without wanting to burst into hysterical crying over a misworded email or the memory of some shameful thing that happened to me fifteen years ago and happened to surface as a matter of coincidence.
In moments of extreme pain when there is no one around to distract me, I sometimes drink heavily. There are other substances too, of course–there always are when you’re self-medicating, an endless stream of chemical friends to fill the long lonely hours. I cannot remember the last 24-hour period where I hadn’t taken anything, but I am still holding down a job, maintaining relationships…I figure I’m okay. It’s a temporary fix, I tell myself, just enough to get me through until the real problem (my chemical imbalance) can be corrected.
These drugs, they keep me safe from myself. They take me from “She’s all messed up” to “This girl is fucked in the head, but she’s still fun to be around, at least.”
I’m switching to a new doctor this month and am somewhat horrified at the prospect that I may not be able to continue my painkillers–until they find a cure, or at least better treatments, for endometriosis, I’m stuck battling this horrible disease with opiates. It’s not ideal by any stretch of the imagination, but it is my only option for now. Two years after my diagnosis, I’ve reached the end of the line. No more options except another surgery, which will help me for another year at most before things return to how they are now. In fact, surgery could actually make things worse.
I know a lot of people think of medication–whether it’s antidepressants or the long-term use of painkillers–as a crutch, as if “mind over matter” could cure all of our ailments. They’re entitled to their opinions, certainly, but for my part, I’m just grateful for modern medicine and the fact that there is something, anything, that can take the pain away, if only for a short while.