Ask an Addict is a column penned by a Kamloops scholar with expertise in addiction issues and someone who is also an addict. The column is meant to inform and help, which is particularly important as we remain mired in an opioid crisis that continues to claim thousands of lives each year. If you have a question you would like answered, email it to email@example.com. Anonymity is guaranteed.
Another one? I relapsed. No one but my husband knows and he is rightfully angry.
I notice I want to blame him.
He is not emotionally intimate, so I fill my emptiness with drugs in an attempt escape the loneliness I feel.
He is not the solution. I know this, but I live in fantasy.
I feel entitled and don’t want to feel any pain. I once wished for chronic pain so I could take prescription drugs on a legitimate basis.
Be careful of what you ask for — now that I have chronic pain, I cannot take those once-loved drugs of choice.
I am angry and sad, lost and confused.
I take medication for pain, one that allows me to disassociate from feeling anything, even joy or anger.
Narcotics make me bitter and angry, I lash out at everything and everyone for the misery I feel.
The medication I take does not do that for me, but it harms me in other ways. I cannot control how much I take, ever pressing the boundary by taking more.
I become psychotic, burning more brain cells when I consume.
I forget everything and every memory recently acquired.
I hate me.
I take more than prescribed, my head becomes cement and my lips slur, making accidental sounds.
I stumble when talking, my speech clumsy as a toddler trying to walk.
My Lego words have trouble rolling around in my lips instead of escaping as they should.
I fumble and fall, with my tongue unable to articulate the words. I am a zombie, muscles frozen in ice.
My husband is angry.
I know what to do, but remain trapped in a small squirrel circus wheel.
He refuses to work the 12 steps with me.
I am resentful, angry with him.
I use this as an excuse to escape my reality.
I befriend others on Facebook who pretend to be someone they are not. I am lonely. I know what to do, yet sit quietly, refusing to make the first step.
If it is to be, it is up to me. I am afraid of everything, including life and living.
I am tired. I am unwilling to give up the medication.
The escape is preferable to my lonely reality, alone with no one but me to meet my seemingly unremitting needs.
I need to sign off.
I am uncertain if I will continue with this column.
The editor says it has received a positive response, but I have no way of knowing this.
Thus, until then, I keep hoping the darkest days end just before the beginning of dawn.