I took the pills. I needed to get some real sleep for a change. Sleeping pills have never been something I’ve been into, so the thought of popping a pill and being able to feel that tender yanking on my senses into slumber land has become intriguing lately, given the total lack of my only child’s whereabouts.
It’s hard to sleep under my current circumstances; and when I am able to drift off into the lair of my waking enemy, my visits are short-lived and bitterly laced with mental snapshots I’ve blocked out in the conscious moments during daylight.
To the mind of a non-practicing heroin addict, the inability to become truly sleepy is something akin to a foreign concept; because back when I was a practicing addict, the tried and true escapism, the accepted and sought after realm of the “Netherworlds”, known as sleep and slumber – shit, unconsciousness, for that matter – never managed to evade my habitual calls upon them. Incidentally, when I was strung-out on heroin, my existence (or lack, thereof) was in reverse from today in this respect: it used to be extremely and notoriously difficult to wake me up. I once slept through the first two days of broken jaw (the first and MOST painful of my broken jawbones). Thinking back, I can hardly even believe that was me – in any aspect of the situation, wow…
The pill – an anti-anxiety tablet from a zip-lock baggie my Shawnee Mommy forcefully punched into my fifth pocket the other day. This is my mother’s version of packing me my lunch before sending me on my way out into the big bad world, something she never got around to doing when an actual mom-made-packed-lunch might have made a difference somehow. The baggie was like a favor bag leftover from a Keith Richards & Stevie Nicks slumber party: Clonazepam, Seroquel, Alprazolam, Hydroxyzine, Trazodone, Valium, and of course my all-time favorite in plentiful amounts: Xanax.
I went with half of a Hydroxyzine; I just wanted to drift off to sleep for a change, I swear…
Within 45 minutes of popping the bitter, purple half-moon, I was clicking through photos from a long-ago burned CD-R filled with the lives of me and my only child – from her beloved infancy and toddlerhood all the way up to a few ugly years ago.
It was during this time that the guilt reared its familiarly hideous head out of the CD-R, and commenced to swallowing me whole. I could no longer even see the images on the screen; a foggy, tear-embedded haze had redesigned the room and everything in it. Despite eating the half-pill that supposedly helps with anxiety and is praised by my most high-strung of acquaintances, my heart was thumping so painfully in my chest that I got angry. Yeah…get mad dumbass – get that adrenaline in on this too, that’ll help a lot.
My emotions affected by seeing my daughter’s little baby face at age 6 months or one year old – her wild bright blonde hair all over the place, her hauntingly unchanged green-brown doe eyes, her O-shaped little mouth – her innocence and promise and chances in life seemingly hovering over her in each photo I looked at – were absolutely consuming in every nano-ounce of my being. Anyway, I learned last night, that sleeping pills aren’t my answer to the perpetually perplexing equation at of my life, either. I guess my backyard MacGyver laboratory lives on nocturnally, for now. DISCLAIMER: I don’t really have a laboratory and I don’t really make bombs, it’s totally symbolic when I make these remarks on my blog. I’d be lying if I said that the thought of slapping one into my camel pack instead of the water pouch and paying a visit to my daughter’s case worker over at the Department‘s Headquarters isn’t a daily fantasy of mine. I have truly become a hateful and calculating individual – a coiled up mother snake just waiting for my moment to strike, and strike lethally. I have enabled this through my PTSD and its overall grip on my concept of everything.
I have times when the reality that I have put upon my daughter is too much to bear for me; too much to accept, to swallow down and move on. I’m having one of those times today, likely due to the drug-induced guiltfest that I threw for myself last night in the attempt to get some sleep for a change.
Another. Lesson. Learned.