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There has been a bottle of codeine cough syrup on my dining table since Scarlett was sick last year. Most of the time I ignore it, on occasion it crosses my mind in a fleeting thought before my attention zings off.
Last night I had a nagging deep cough that kept jarring me awake as I'd drift off. I was up late and feeling wired, fretting that I'd never sleep. And suddenly the bottle filled my mind, backlit like Cybill Shepard when she was Moonlighting. I took a mouthful, and crawled back under the covers.
No more coughing.
When I awoke two hours later, I was overwhelmed at the wash of sweet pleasure I'd tried so hard to push out of my mind these last months. All was right in my world, my body was filled with peace, my thoughts were sweet and kind. As I laid back down after a restroom visit, I prayed "Lord please let me feel like this all the time" before I chastised myself for asking Jesus to give me drugs. I drifted back into oblivion, and although I was awakened perhaps twice more before morning, at each awakening I purred with contentment, wrapped in those warm narcotic arms.
The morning was good, and only in those last few minutes before I started the Grand Am did I grow impatient and growly with my daughter. After several second thoughts, I grabbed the bottle and brought it to work. Ostensibly for the cough, which hasn't materialized yet. It's strongest at night, when I'm exposed to the cats and when my sinuses are inclined to drain back instead of forward.
In truth, I'm configuring an excuse for another mouthful. I ache for that feeling that I can conquer the world - take yoga and walk a mile at lunch, eat a salad and quit drinking Diet Coke. I crave the relaxation of muscle and mind. I'm broken-hearted at my lack of joy now that the narcotic effect has waned.
If I can go months without it, how can I be an addict?
Last night I had a nagging deep cough that kept jarring me awake as I'd drift off. I was up late and feeling wired, fretting that I'd never sleep. And suddenly the bottle filled my mind, backlit like Cybill Shepard when she was Moonlighting. I took a mouthful, and crawled back under the covers.
No more coughing.
When I awoke two hours later, I was overwhelmed at the wash of sweet pleasure I'd tried so hard to push out of my mind these last months. All was right in my world, my body was filled with peace, my thoughts were sweet and kind. As I laid back down after a restroom visit, I prayed "Lord please let me feel like this all the time" before I chastised myself for asking Jesus to give me drugs. I drifted back into oblivion, and although I was awakened perhaps twice more before morning, at each awakening I purred with contentment, wrapped in those warm narcotic arms.
The morning was good, and only in those last few minutes before I started the Grand Am did I grow impatient and growly with my daughter. After several second thoughts, I grabbed the bottle and brought it to work. Ostensibly for the cough, which hasn't materialized yet. It's strongest at night, when I'm exposed to the cats and when my sinuses are inclined to drain back instead of forward.
In truth, I'm configuring an excuse for another mouthful. I ache for that feeling that I can conquer the world - take yoga and walk a mile at lunch, eat a salad and quit drinking Diet Coke. I crave the relaxation of muscle and mind. I'm broken-hearted at my lack of joy now that the narcotic effect has waned.
If I can go months without it, how can I be an addict?
