OXYCONTIN!: THE CLOSEST THING TO A CURE FOR FIBROMYALGIA?(!)

My apologies for not posting in a while. I spent the past few days at my younger brother's and couldn't post because it would have been rude.

So now I'm very tired and about to nap, sitting here, upright.

But I felt the need to write that I have been prescribed OxyContin, and look forward to starting taking it because I believe it is likely to be the best way to manage my pain. I'm going to start taking Oxy Monday because I'm going to go to the local skate park tomorrow. My pain is that much more tolerable, and my life that much better, that I can resume the activity that, after writing and sex, gives my life purpose!

...It's important to note, here, that doctors will tell you that narcotics will turn you into a zombie who never will leave his/her couch.

More bullshit(which is all you should expect to hear when a doctor talks about narcotic/opiate analgesics). When you take someone's pain level down to a tolerable level, they can stop being a zombie, get off the couch and do what they will. Before treatment the person was in too much pain to be able to move much. You take away the pain, you take away the impetus behind the person's near-immobility.

...I'm going to be taking 10mg pills every eight hours, so the dosing is more convenient... Better than taking five Percocets every three hours and fifteen minutes, anyway.

I just hope me taking 10mg of OxyContin doesn't mean I'll only be getting 30mg of oxycodone per day. That would seem to be a step back in my treatment, since I currently take 50mg of oxycodone per day.

Of course, you'll be able to read all about how well things go this week. But I'm cautiously optimistic!

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CLEAN PISS!

I got a call today: My drug test came back quickly, and I'm clean... But for the oxycodone, of course.

Much rejoicing...

Dr ML&S will see me Friday, at which point I'll discuss upping my dose, and taking straight oxy instead of Percocet, which has Tylenol. Right now I take five pills a day, 10mg oxy, 325mg APAP (aka Tylenol) per pill. Fibromylagia is a disorder one has for one's entire life, incurable as of this writing (and I'm not holding my breath for one...).

So I need to be on oxycodone for the rest of my life. But here's the trick: Most doctors give you oxycodone or morphine or whatever in a preparation like Vicodin, Percocet, and on because they want to be able to catch you overdosing -- or at least catch you taking more than they had prescribed.

Here's how it's done: by prescribing oxycodone, morphine, etc pills that contain Tylenol/APAP. Four grams of Tylenol is an overdose. The whites of your eyes will turn yellow as my clean piss and you'll get liver damage for the rest of your life if you take more than that. And doctors definitely don't want you taking more than is prescribed.

So, daily I'm ingesting 1,625mg of APAP so my doctor can be sure that I won't take a megadose of oxy.

Why would I? I have a certain number of pills for a set number of days. If I take more one day I screw myself the next. And I think it's been established that I do not like pain, and so avoid it or, perhaps more accurately, elide it as much as is possible. I do so, now, by taking five Percs a day.

I would like to be prescribed oxycodone, nothing but, because APAP is worse for you than the oxy. In fact, taking APAP daily for the remainder of my life is bound to eventually compromise my liver.

Also, to purify my pills and take nothing but oxy I would only have to perform a simple cold-water extraction of it from pulverized Percs, five times daily. In fact, if I am to be prescribe nothing but Percocet, I plan on performing cold-water extractions of it to help my liver out.

(Google "cold-water extraction" and vicodin or percocet to know how this is done... But I can't recommend that everyone or even anyone do this because I don't want some fucker suing me because they are able to take an oxy overdose after performing extractions. And Tylenol does prevent that. But in this awful way: You'll die from a Tylenol overdose well before you'll die from having taken too much oxy.)

Of course, doctors will tell you that the APAP enhances the effects of oxy, so you have to take less of the narcotic itself. Pure bullshit. Narcotics come with APAP so doctors can easily know if you've tried to take too much of what you've been prescribed.

...And the "easy way" will land you in the emergency room, and you'll be lucky to live through your APAP overdose. Better you had OD-ed on oxy. Far easier to survive, and no permanent damage done to any of your organs, most likely.

(I do not endorse the taking of oxycodone by anyone but me. Is my ass covered now?)

The truth is that opiates/opioids are the safest drugs to take. If you take too much you'll fall asleep -- the only "negative" effect. However, if you're trying to kill yourself, I suppose it's a great way to go. You'll get high as Stalin was on power and syphilis -- unless you suffer from chronic pain and, therefore, can never get high off pain medication -- and die from respiratory depression.

But I have no idea how much oxy that takes. I would guess approximately one assload.

...And anecdotal evidence shows that heroin addicts live a damn long time. Their shit can be cut with strychnine and it's apparently safer than Tylenol.

...Was all the above simply a way to justify what will be my reasonable request for 30 more milligrams of oxy when I see Dr ML&S Friday, and to not have the oxy coupled with APAP? Why do I feel the need to justify it at all?

In any case, I hope I, at least, spread some pro-narc pro-propaganda...

I hope to write about my progress in physical therapy tomorrow... But if you've been following this blog, you know I often plan on writing about something and then get completely sidetracked.

Nothing like a good tangent... (And a good tangent, in my eyes, is any one that doesn't involve trigonometry.)

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PROBLEM SOLVED?(!)

I wrote a letter to Dr ML&S, delivered it this morning, and was taking another piss test this afternoon.

If this one shows up clean -- and I have every reason to believe it will -- he will continue to see me, and to prescribe Percocet.

Whew!

I would transcribe the note for you, but I don't have it. I believe it's now part of my chart at Lummox Family Medical (too lazy to see if that's consistent nomenclature for where I go to see Dr 9 and ML&S).

But what had pissed off Dr ML&S most about my previous test is that he thought I lied to him. I was honest when I said I had ganked a morphine from I won't say who, but didn't tell him I smoked weed.

...I didn't because I don't. So the letter I wrote described to him why I didn't tell him THC would show up in my piss: it didn't occur to me that it would or even could.

I also made sure to let him know that he saved my life, literally, because I was seriously contemplating suicide before he wrote the Percocet prescription. I also let him know of my incredible improvement in physical therapy.

So he's a great guy for letting me take another test. This results of this one should come back to me in two days. Then, when all is well, I will see the doc on Friday, at which point we'll discuss my situation since I saw him last. I plan on asking for 20mg more of oxycodone -- and to ask for it straight up -- without the added Tylenol. Since I'm going to need oxy the rest of my life, the last thing I need is APAP eating away at my stomach and liver.

So all should be well!

...What a freaking relief...

[Pain: 5/5.

Anxiety: 7/10.

And if you're visiting this site after being redirected from Wordpress: Welcome! Hope you like the new digs!]

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MIRAPEX: A CURE FOR ALCOHOLISM!

I used to have such a thirst for alcohol that I would get drunk on Thursdays and always be horribly hungover at work on Fridays because I had stayed up until the wee hours the night before because it took me quite a while to get drunk.

In my search for a way to ease my fibro I ended up on Mirapex, and about a month into taking mega-doses I no longer wanted to drink.

...Well, I wouldn't be shaking for 5:30 to come on Fridays, anyway.

Today I have swallowed about three liters of wine just to see if I can, in fact, get drunk. It would seem I cannot. ...And I'm not even weird on it, though it's matched with 50mg oxycodone (through Percocet) and 4mg Klonopin.

I didn't sign up for this... Apparently Mirapex changed my brain and did so, perhaps, for the rest of my life. I haven't taken the stuff for months, but still have no thirst for the drink. Last week when I was in such pain that all I wanted to do was die I couldn't even make myself swallow enough vodka to make a difference. Maybe there isn't an amount of vodka that would make a difference.

I simply slept well the night I drank vodka... And woke the next to find two fingers in the bottom of a fifth.

Strange thoughts on this strange day...

...If you think you have a problem with the bottle, ask your doc about Mirapex. I believe it's supposed to allow your brain to produce more dopamine... Or somehow make more dopamine available to your dope-loving brain. Either/or/and.

All I have now is a headache because it's been a while since I've taken a Percocet, and I'm going to have to take 50mg of Trazodone and a Sonata to get to sleep just so I can get the sleeping over with, it can be another day, and I can have more Percocet... I only get five a day and make myself stick to it.

...But what about Tylenol etc and liver damage (I take five Percs a day, 10mg oxycodone/325mg APAP)? Three-twenty-and-five multiplied by five is 1,625mg of Tylenol. Four grams is an overdose. And the wine must be taxing my liver like Paul did Jews before he had a seizure and founded christianity.

...I've been taking a multivitamin and a strong B-complex tab ever since I was put on legal dopes at eighteen years old, and I get a liver enzyme test at least once a year, and my largest internal organ is just fine. Pristine. Begging for more.

And now I have pared down my drug diet to three meds I know and love, which should save my delicious liver some trouble: I take only Prozac, Klonopin and Percocet. I need nothing else (well, except for Trazodone and Sonata so I can get to sleep)... In fact, if Prozac wasn't available in a generic formulation, I'd drop that too. But the drug reminds me of my college years, is relatively cheap, and so it stays.

...When my rationality and my sentimentality collide, the latter wins almost every time.

...I will forever keep a quilt that was my older brother's that has bled all its stuffing and a brain that spews dopamine like a busted fire hydrant... But I'm unable to splash in the middle of the road in the late-July of a humid Washington D.C.

I'm unable to get drunk.

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AN ANVIL HAS BEEN DROPPED ON MY NUTS (PLUS TURING MACHINE: DON'T MIND IF I DON'T)!

I found out today through a letter that Dr ML&S sent me that he may not prescribe me any more Percocet because some THC showed up in my piss. He says he is unlikely to see me anymore as a patient (as opposed to us seeing each other as lovers who are into S&M so heavily that every sexual encounter we have almost kills one of us), even though he believes wholeheartedly that Percocet is exactly what I need.

Insanity insanity insanity...

I'm going to write him a letter, to be dropped off Monday, letting him know that, though he thinks he prescribed me enough Percs to last me until Dr 9 comes back from vacation, he did, in fact, only prescribe me enough for two weeks, not the four it would take to tide me over until I can talk to Dr 9 about him taking over prescribing Percs.

I'm also going to let him know I didn't tell him THC may show up in my piss when I saw him Monday because it didn't occur to me that it would or could. I was around smokers the Thursday before I saw him and didn't smoke, myself. The test must be ncredibly sensitive and the amount of THC minuscule.

Right now my stomach is cramping I'm so anxious. I'm swallowing 4mg of Klonopin now (done), and can't write because thinking about this is making me so physically ill.

More later.

Until then, please enjoy Turing Machine while I enjoy a massive panic attack!

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LACK OF HATE = WRITER'S BLOCK?(!)

Since I have been on Percocet -- Monday -- I have found it hard to sit and write.

This could be because I still am getting used to the slight lethargy I'm experiencing as a side-effect of the oxycodone (active ingredient in Perc)... But, then, I went on an hour-long walk in foot-deep snow today...

So I seem to be finding it difficult to write about my medical situation now that I have little to bitch about.

Well, I certainly don't want my situation to change... But I need to keep writing.

I think that means I need to provide the story of how all this started: From my fibro diagnosis, to my resignation from The Washington Post, to me applying for Social Security Disability, to me having to leave Washington, DC because I was one step away from living on the street (ran out of money, ran up credit cards, sucked dry all savings) to, finally, moving back in with my parents and having to start over with new doctors.

I think that's how things are going to go.

Of course, while we're catching up with the past, I will continue to provide updates regarding all my current visits with my doctors and my physical therapist.

Speaking of Cassatt, my latest appointment with her was Tuesday. For the first time I was able to use the exercise machines in a way that actually made them sense that they were, in fact, being used. During all my previous visits I was barely able to move the pedaler (you sit down and push down with your feet, alternating left and right) and the arm bicycle (you use your hands in the same way your feet pedal a bicycle).

Immediate, considerable progress, brought to you by Percocet.

...It's amazing to think, now, of just how badly I wanted to die just last Sunday!

I also talked with Cassatt about her getting in touch with my insurance company (Thievery Corporation... Check out the group/club owners in DC I borrowed this name from) to see how much it will cost me to get my own e-stim machine. Hopefully it won't be much, since I already have met my insurance deductible for the year.

...Huh. Maybe I can still write, if I can get my ass behind my desk. But is it interesting without the hate behind it?

Stay tuned!

[Pain: 5/5.

Anxiety: 8/10.]

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REASON TO LIVE? YOU KNOW HOW TO SPELL IT!

P-E-R-C-O-C-E-T!

Dr 9's stand in has me on 10/325s x 5 per day (10mg oxycodone, 325mg APAP) for now. I see him in two weeks, when we will talk about the dose and my past medical records (from Dr W), bloodwork from a few months ago, etc.

CHRONIC OPIOID ANALGESIC THERAPY!

Pain is a 5/5!

Things were getting horribly bleak, and I have christened Dr 9's stand-in Dr ML&S for My Lord & Saviour, accordingly.

That's all for now!

[Anxiety: 10/10. I had to pee in a cup on Monday, when I saw Dr ML&S. I watched Lost with some pot smokers Thursday, but didn't partake... If my piss is dirty it could affect my treatment... Plus Dr Douchebag has me on Douchebag-level treatment for my anxiety, of course.

So I call Super-Mega-Ultra-Not-Jinx so that everything works out! (And yes... I consider myself rational, but for a few insane superstitions. At least I recognize them to be insane... And most of them are OCD-ish tendencies, not real superstitions.)]

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F---------------------------K!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sorry that the head looks awful, but I didn't think it proper to write FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!! in that space.

I received worse than no help from the people I saw today. And to cover my ass (Cover the ass you want to be in the world...), I must admit this is a work of complete fiction. A one hundred percent fabrication. The below is a horrible dream I had. Or something.

JK Rowling isn't the only one with a lackluster imagination... (Easy with the fillet knives fanatics...)

...On with it. Here is what happened in said dream:

I wrote the following on Wednesday night, hoping the doctors I saw today could read it, since my writing is better than my speech, especially since I've had fibro. Enjoy, and I'll tell you what happened at the Center after (this is going to be a long post, so swallow the drugs I don't have access to, if you have access to them yourself). The following is an integral piece of the story though.

Or not...

Hell, it's just so damn degrading it simply must be relevant.

Enjoy!:

What I Have:

FIBROMYALGIA, which causes:

1. Chronic Daily Migraines [when I write longhand all my knowledge of grammar, punctuation, and proper capitalization evaporates like a sip of brandy on the tip of the tongue], pain 10/10, nausea 7/10, photophobia 7/10, phonophobia 10/10.

2. Pain Pain Pain Pain Pain Everywhere (10/10).

3. IBS -- have lost 17lbs. in past month... Not necessarily bad, but a lot to lose in one month -- Pain associated w/ it 10/10, decreased ABILITY to eat and drink fluids. Always dehydrated. (GP not concerned.)

4. I'm 29 and I need a cane to walk. ENOUGH SAID? (Or, rather, written?)

5. DID I MENTION PAIN? The pain is going to drive me insane very, very soon.

6. RLS -- restless legs syndrome.

7. Generalized anxiety disorder.

8. Major depression.

9. Inability to sleep longer than 4-5 hours per night because PAIN wakes me.

10. Alpha wave intrusion into delta-wave sleep, so sleep is short, and of poor quality.

11. My Mom and I shared a hotel room last night. I knocked myself out with Benadryl, which I've had IV too, it does nothing, but woke her up about every hour because I apparently moan loudly due to pain in my sleep.

Current Meds:

1. Topamax, 100mg/day: does absolutely nothing. Have been on for one month and will discontinue, just as I have tried and discontinued every other migraine drug (plus prednisone in case they were cluster headaches).

2. Klonopin, 4mg/day.

3. Vistaril: Dr. Douchebag (psych.) wrote script for up to 200mg/day, but SAID I can take as much as 400mg. Not a good way to practice medicine. (Will be seeing a new shrink beginning March 20.)

4. Zanaflex: 24mg/day.

5. Ultram: 200mg/day. A horrible and cruel, cruel joke. My GP previously prescribed my Vicodin over 2 weekends. He prescribed (I think...) 7.5/750s x 20, but was unhappy that I took all of them over the weekend.

I did so -- and made sure not to exceed 4grams APAP in any 24hr period [that's an overdose, for those playing along at home] (Dr 9 doesn't work on Fridays, so weekends were 4.5 days) because the Vicodin couldn't come close to taming my pain. [That sentence could have been a bit clearer... But, then, it doesn't matter: The docs at the Center wouldn't read it or even let me read it to them. Why not? They didn't want to hear anything I had to say! One doctor took down the meds I'm currently on, and from then on it was a battle royale: Me yelling at them, and them trying to advocate for their position and failing miserably. It would seem the two doctors I dealt with had never been in a debate in their entire lives. Or a lukewarm conversation.]

And how could Dr 9 expect Vicodin to tame my pain? He knows my previous Doc, a pain management specialist, had me on Percocet, which only succeeded (at the low dose it was set at) at keeping me non-suicidal and able to walk one block to and from work.

Vicodin is a horrible joke. Ultram is Dr 9 pissing in my hat and making me wear it.

* MY SEVENTY-FIVE CENTS: I have only received any pain relief whatsoever from Percocet. I would suggest we treat my pain aggressively and treat me with about 70mg oxycodone to start, and see if I need more or less. [Again, could have been more clear. At least you know I'm transcribing exactly what I wrote... Although I'm not convinced it's important that it be one hundred percent accurate... Oh well. It is. The next transcription will be bullshit.]

Of course, now that I've written that, I appear to simply be a drug-seeker.

But we all know about pseudo-addiction, don't we?* [My doctor did not.]

My pain -- my indescribable, horrible, hell-itself pain has been amazingly under-treated for years. AND I WANT RELIEF AND I WANT IT NOW. EVERYONE KNOWS OXYCODONE WORKS, BUT SIMPLY NEEDS TO BE SUPPLIED IN A SUFFICIENT DAILY DOSE.

LET'S DO IT ALREADY. HOW MUCH LONGER DO I HAVE TO SUFFER BECAUSE DOCTORS WON'T SCRIBBLE A FEW WORDS ON A PAD? THOSE FEW WORDS -- THAT SCRIPT IS LITERALLY MY TICKET OUT OF HELL!

* See final page for brief summary of pseudo-addiction. [I left, briefly, to piss in a cup, after inviting the doc to read what I had written. When I returned, the page was flipped to the summary on pseudo-addiction. Bad Sign No. 1.]

6. Prozac, 40mg/day.

7. Mirapex, .5mg/day.

8. Insane amts. of vitamins and minerals: generic Centrum; 100mg Co Q-10; 100mg B-2; B complex w/ vitamin C; 1,000 IU vitamin D; 1,000mg magnesium.

ALL THE ABOVE ARE WORTH A WOODEN NICKEL EXCEPT KLONOPIN.

[What a hokey and cheesy way of saying that only Klonopin is worth taking. ...And “hokey” is, itself, hokey and cheesy.]

Dr 9 sent me here so I would be put on chronic opioid analgesic therapy [when I first mentioned this term, the doctor I was speaking to had no idea what I was talking about. It would have been poetic if a cold bead of sweat trickled down the nape of my neck at that moment. What really happened: I closed my eyes for a second, slid down in my chair a few inches, and the words “You are so so so fucked” went through my head.], which he will not do himself because he “doesn't do much prescribing of narcotics.”

[As it turns out, neither does the Center. I was informed by three people, multiple times each that I had “zero chance of getting treated with narcotics.” And they all said "getting." They couldn't even use proper English and say "being" -- and let's not start on "zero." Small things like that help me be remorseless when it comes time to yell simply to wound... When your display will get you nothing you want but the other person's pain.]

In short, he wants you to put me on COAT, which he will then prescribe for me monthly.

P.S.: I wrote all this down because I've been stuttering and groping for words in speech since I've have had fibromyalgia and wanted all this to be clear. I hope it is.

I also know it reads as though I am incredibly desperate.

You have no idea how desperate I am to get some, any -- hopefully the most possible, though -- relief from my pain.

PLEASE HELP ME. YOU ARE LITERALLY MY LAST HOPE. I have nowhere else to go.

Goddam. I'm finally done transcribing that freaking note. ...Doing that was not fun. Hopefully this next will be, for all of us:

Did I refer to the over-full colostomy bags I saw today at Fakename Whatever Whatever Pain Center as “wizards” in my last post? I'd punch myself in the balls for that one if it didn't feel like I'd already been hit by Tyson (admittedly, everywhere but there) in his good years -- and his pre-wife-beating pigshit rapist years. He lost it in the ring and outside it at the same time. Borderline personality disorder?

Whatever. Fuck all rapists.

Can people stop cheering for Kobe for fuck's sake? Maybe it wasn't rape, but...

Well, I'm pretty damn sure it was. So sit down, shut the fuck up, oh wow he jumped high and a ball went in a hoop. Your city is now better than the city the rapist is playing against. You and the rapist became one in that moment -- you cheering for him as the ball rolled off his fingers made all the difference. Now go get in a fight in the parking lot with some guy who flew in all the way from New Jersey -- a fight started because you're both body-painters and got pissed at each other on-sight.

How long does it take for the paint to come off each, individual, hair?

So the two of you go to jail, while Kobe finds a rape victim or two then buys their silence -- for now... But his story ends in a jailbox to be sure...

But back to me me me me me:

It's a good thing I have about 10 glasses of wine in me. Because:

“Frankly, I was horrified by life, at what a man had to do simply in order to eat, sleep, and keep himself clothed. So I stayed in bed and drank. When you drank the world was still out there, but for the moment it didn’t have you by the throat.”

Charles Bukowski wrote that in Factotum (which everyone should read and if anyone calls him a beat they should get beaten). I've always shared that horror with Bukowski. It's never seemed right that someone has to work to live. And so we have a society where everyone fucks around all the time at work. Why can't we just work intensely for one eight-hour day per week? We would be far more productive.

And we could live our goddam lives 160 hours per week.

The fact is, society can do whatever it wants by mutual agreement... In this case, American society. If we choose to work far fewer hours, but to actually make those hours count, we could do it, and easily. And the economy would be fine: Fuck Wall Street and stocks and ever-rising profits. Let's hit a nice plateau and stay there. If we decide we're OK with that, we're halfway to home plate. (And 99 percent of us should be because our portfolios aren't really doing a goddam thing for us compared to the Trumps etcetera of the world. Fuck the rich, kill the stock market.

[Ed.: But I could really care less... I remain untouched by the economy at large: The 12-year old socialist bastard who writes my stuff for me (I get him drunk on mouthwash and set his spirit free on the electronic page) gets the job done in 15 minutes or less.]

Fuck. Fuck...

Sorry. Took a huge hit today and am avoiding the real topic.




I'm almost at the end of my rope, and I have more than enough to hang myself with. And I feel like using it to do so.

But I remember how one of the doctors I saw today didn't so much as flinch when I yelled at her: “What the fuck do you do for fibromyalgians (TM) in this place, give them a gun and point them out back?!”

She seemed to consider it in her stony silence.

All my doctors want me to leave them the fuck alone. They want a moment's peace. If they knew I was dead, they would be assured peace.

And I have made my life's purpose to deny them peace so long as they deny me mine. I treat all who are in the position to help me but who do not as if they are actively hurting me -- as if they are my fibromyalgia made human. And they may as well be. They have the power to make me feel about eighty percent better. Easily.

It's not a hard fucking thing! Scribble the word “oxycodone” on an Rx pad, sign it, date it, hand it to me, and TING TING TING! this dirty angel gets his wings and is sonic-booming out of Hell.

The worst thing about my death? The doctors would not be blamed by anyone but my nuclear family. Everyone else would call me a pussy who "took the easy way out."

Dears, suicide is never the easy way out. It's how a sane person responds to an insane world that has pushed him/her to the ledge...

When doctors don't do the right thing, I sleep with a clean conscience despite the fact I've uttered every obscenity I can think of at them. I sleep better for it, in fact. I have known people for only one hour and have judged them to be stupid, vile, ignorant, and without the requisite amount of empathy to survive in an orangutan colony.

But do I really trust these snap judgments?

Huh...

Mostly, I think the people I deal with are horribly, horribly ignorant. And "ignorant" is rooted in “ignore.” Which is awful, because it suggests a person is choosing stupidity. And the people I deal with are. They ignore facts that disprove them. The mountain of evidence that will wash them away...

The docs I deal with learned what they learned about narcs 30, 40 years ago. But guess what? A few planets have been discovered since then, and Pluto has been demoted too (it never belonged... You have the rocky planets, then the gas giants, then... an asteroid?).

And what has been discovered about narcs in the years since these docs learnified themselves?

Well, for starters, people in chronic pain don't develop tolerance to narcs.

I was talking with one doctor today:

“Well you're so young no one would...”

(The point of using reason with these people had long past... In fact, I don't think reason has a place in the entirety of Jesusland... Get thee to a coastal city... And in the West or Northeast -- the South is tainted!) “Oh, of course, I'm 29 and I have so long to live that my tolerance would get so massive that...

"WAIT! I want you to read this!"

In my hand was the article from this post, showing that, as written above, people in chronic pain don't develop tolerance to narcs.

“No. I won't read it.”

“What?! It's only a few paragraphs! It covers a few studies!

A weird, small silence as we glared at each other, her eyes not cold, not distant... Simply no light behind them.

"What? Will reading it harm you in some way?!”

“No, let's--”

“OK, then riddle me this--”

“I won't riddle you anything.”

Can you believe this exchange? It's like a brother and sister squabbling, not a doctor and patient having a discourse for crissake!

“Listen, I know you're going to go into the bullshit--”

“I don't think this is the way we should be speaking.”

“OK, then it's crap that people in chronic pain develop tolerance to narcotics. If you would read this you would see that careful research bears out what I say.

“This is not the truth.”

“This is not the truth?! I hold the truth in my hand.” And I held my hand in her face.

“No.”

“Fine. Listen.” She started to speak. So I made sure she couldn't, which meant I had to yell. It felt good... It gave me the fleeting exhilaration you get from punching through an ocean wave...

“IF PEOPLE IN CHRONIC PAIN BUILD UP A TOLERANCE TO NARCOTICS, WHY HAS [FRIEND OR LOVED ONE], WHO HAS [MS,MD, THEREABOUTS] BEEN TAKING THE EXACT SAME DOSE OF MORPHINE FOR SIX YEARS? HE HAS NO TOLERANCE TO THE DRUG AND HE CERTAINLY ISN'T A FREAKING ADDICT!

"THERE'S ABSOLUTELY NO TOLERANCE AND NO ADDICTION SO DON'T GIVE ME THAT STUPID CANARD! READ SOMETHING ON CHRONIC PAIN AND NARCOTICS THAT HAS BEEN PUBLISHED THIS CENTURY!"

I slumped a little, took a small breath, and let myself enjoy the taste of saying:

“I'm sorry, but when it comes to narcotics, I don't think a single person in this building has any idea what they're talking about. You seem to believe that opiates are intrinsically evil when, in fact, they saved each of us from death once or twice, I'd bet.

"I had an appendectomy -- what did you have?"

I stared into her eyes, mine half-closed in self-satisfaction like I had just ejaculated. There was no way I was getting any help whatsoever out of these people, and I had known that for quite a while.

But for a few hours a few people were my fibromyalgia -- and perfect proxies: ignorant, lemmings, eyes on the heels of Dear Center Director so they can follow in lockstep, and Dear Director does not believe in Evil Opioids because what good have they ever done...

...I tried to calm down by reminding myself that all of what I was experiencing is simply what happens when 40-year-old medical knowledge is applied to a disorder that is just starting to be misunderstood: My life gets completely and utterly ruined.

AND I AM SUPPOSED TO ACCEPT THIS.

GET WITH THE FUCKING PROGRAM.

...Of course, one may worry about the repercussions of one's actions -- fuck, “one” just spent four hours yelling at two different doctors, calling them nothing less than idiots (and being goddam spot-on).

So on the way home I called the Center and told the records department that I withdrew my HIPAA records-release as of that moment, and that the only person their records of my visit could legally go to are me. And, if they so much as think about sending them to anyone but me, they have to call me first.

Not even my GP is going to know what took place today. I'm just going to tell him they were only offering treatments I had already undergone -- which is exactly true. The bastards expected me to go to a hospital for two weeks and get the exact same treatments Dr 9 had given me with little success before he took off for vacation! Fucking freaks!

Goddam it I want Logic 101 to be fucking mandatory for everyone on this earth!

And, of course, there's Einstein: "Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result." By his definition, I was in a house of motherfucking loons that plays at being a medical center. I used to think medicine was grounded in science, but now know better: It's mostly grounded in idiots and outdated knowledge.

I toyed with one of the doctors. I asked her to name a treatment and I would tell her if I had undergone it.

She stopped after four matches. And they were IV treatments. My god she thought she had me...

And I brought a bag full of medications I had previously taken which all doctors averted their eyes from as though the sun's incandescence itself lay inside. Every time I offered: "Don't you want to take down all the meds I've been on previously?"

"Just put that away, please," -- annoyed.

They knew I had them dead to rights, trapped in a goddam corner. I had already tried every single thing they wanted me to try -- a-fucking-gain. And they thought it perfectly sensible.

It was the strangest thing... They didn't act human when it came to this matter. They acted like very simple robots who had been given the wrong input and the only thing going through their brain-like-structures was DOES NOT COMPUTE! DOESNOTCOMPUTE! I saw them try to think of why they though why they did... In the end one doctor simply had to leave the room, with me saying,

"Hey, thanks so much for helping out a 29-year-old who has to use a goddam cane!"

"You know, it's your choice to use it."

"IT'S MY CHOICE?! I hope you die soon!"

The door snapped shut. I had jumped to my feet in a microsecond, and I believe she thought I was coming after her, armed with the cane I chose to carry just in case I wanted to beat the shit out of a woman.

Why else would I carry it?

Then the other doctor came to sit by me and said "Maybe this isn't the place for you; all you want is drugs."

I grabbed my head like I was trying to tear my hair out: "Are you kidding me? You two are talking about pumping every drug under the sun into my veins for a period of two freaking weeks, and I only want one simple bottle of pills -- only one drug -- and you think I'm the one who wants me to be whacked out on drugs?

"I realize this is going to end our session, so I have to say it: Anyone who doesn't think all of you are totally insane is insane themselves. Everything you and the other woman have said has been either a personal insult or an insult to logic. I'd ask you for a referral to the Anesthesia Pain Treatment Clinic or whatever it's called, but I know you won't give me one because they might give me those fucking evil narcotics and actually decrease my pain those assholes.

"Merry fucking Christmas."

Then I left.

...Anyway, when/if Dr 9 asks me about my appointment there I'll ask him why the fuck he sent me there.

Then I'll politely ask:

“And how was your vacation?

After he tells me how great Wherever The Fuck was, it will be my turn:

"Me? I've been great, of course! Thanks so much for leaving me high and dry, with absolutely no way to get any relief from my pain whatsoever! The weather in Hell has been fucking fantastic!”

...But I'd actually love for the Center to breach HIPAA and for Dr 9 to know all about what went down at the Center for Lobotomized Doctors. Then, besides having told MDs that they're not smart enough to velcro their kids' shoes I could get them fired and make off with some money, too.

It would almost be justice...

But who cares about justice anyway? Be honest with yourself one goddam second and realize it's vengeance that really gets your saliva going.

...And now I must apologize for this spotty account of this wretched, putrified day. I wanted to get down what I could as quickly as possible... But holy god I could tell this one a million ways a million times.

Until next, I say Viva Hate Forever because it's days like these when Hate is all I have. And I'm lucky that I can hate deeply and thoroughly enough to sustain myself.

But to you, blogfriends and fibromyalgians, love and kittens (especially if you somehow read this far!).

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STUDY: PEOPLE WITH CHRONIC PAIN DON'T GET ADDICTED & CAN AVOID TOLERANCE TO NARCS!

Please see this abstract:

http://www.pain.com/sections/pain_resources/library/abstract.cfm?ID=3403&next_page=1&startrec=1&RecordDisplays=20&Search_phrase=opioid%20substitution%20to%20improve

It's a review of available data on people who are living in chronic pain that is not caused by cancer. Important for fibromyalgians is the fact that "Patient diagnoses included back pain (31), neuropathy (20), joint pain (13), visceral pain (7), reflex sympathetic dystrophy (RSD) (7), headache (5), and fibromyalgia (3)." The number of people in the study with the specified pain/problem is the number in parentheses. Fibromyalgia can, essentially, include all the types of pain mentioned before it except that associated with RSD.

Perhaps the most important thing this study does is dispel the crushingly stupid argument that people in chronic pain get addicted to painkillers: "In a study of 11,882 patients who received narcotics, only four patients became addicted. Other studies report a slightly higher incidence."

And this is one of THE MAIN reasons we (people in chronic pain) are denied opioids? Shave my taint!

Another great thing discussed is the fact that "It is also necessary to differentiate between pseudoaddiction and addiction. Pseudoaddiction is a term that has been applied to patients who develop behaviors reminiscent of the addict as a result of iatrogenic undertreatment of pain. According to these criteria, the authors found only one case of addiction (1%) in a patient with a history of substance abuse."

One. Case. And the one person had a history of substance abuse. Nothing more to say, case made.

One's tolerance increasing to mammoth proportions is a reason always given so physicians can feel comfortable denying patients (especially young ones) opioids. Uh-oh! Here's more from the abstract:

"Pharmacological tolerance is defined as the need for increasing doses to maintain drug effect. This study demonstrated no pharmacological tolerance occurred. The study also showed it is possible to use opioid substitution to find, in most patients (81%), a good balance between adverse side effects and good pain relief."

This post will end with the abstract's final paragraph. Please see a previous post to see how pissed off this issue (the non- and under-prescribing of opioid analgesics to people in chronic pain) gets me. Also know that tomorrow I'm letting Dr 9 read it. And then I'm going to ask him how he can NOT prescribe me Percocet (what I'm shooting for).

"Different chronic noncancer pain syndromes can be treated with chronic opioid therapy. A patient should not be classified as unresponsive to an opioid until a trial of other opioids has been given. If it is necessary to change the opioid because of side effects or inadequate pain relief, with each new opioid tested, the number of patients in whom this new drug will be effective increases. Failure of one opioid is not a prediction of failure of another."

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THOUGHTCRIME!

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Since doctors are loathe to prescribe narcotic medications to fibromyalgians, I'd like to know if anyone gets theirs from overseas, or from Canada, Mexico, American Samoa, so forth through the mail.

As followers of this blog (all the best to you, you beautiful bastards) know, I believe the treatment for fibro should be simple: trigger-point injections performed by a very skilled and knowledgeable doctor, plus continuous opioid analgesic therapy. That's it.

I came to the last deduction (that COAT should be about 50 percent of the treatment) by reasoning that pain should be treated with painkillers (see "I HATE THE WORLD SLIGHTLY LESS!").

Did I just blow your mind? If so, you must be a doctor.

If someone theoretically knows a theoretical Web site that theoretically may be super-reliable and hopefully super-cheap and hopefully has a good supply of oxycodone in various (theoretical) permutations, please post it in Comments. Why oxycodone? Because it's, theoretically, the best pain reliever for at least one person's fibro pain.

So, for the good of all, please write about any theoretical research you've done or theoretical experience you've theoretically had. This could be done both anonymously and theoretically. But for the comment to actually appear, I suppose the comment itself would have to be more than theoretical. Theoretically.

Theoretical love and kittens to all of you

PS: I can't do any theoretical research myself because I have (unfortunately, not theoretically at all) spent every one of my pennies waiting for the Social Security Administration to act on my disability claim. (I leech off my parents, who wouldn't pay for any of these theoretical mailings. Which is strange... I would finally stop being such an asshole, completely theoretically, if my fibro was treated adequately...)

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I HATE THE WORLD SLIGHTLY LESS!

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It turns out that my visit to my new shrink -- actually, he wasn't a shrink, but a psychologist -- was quite productive. He agreed that I need to be on a pain management protocol.

Pills, people. Stronger than Vicodin.

He agrees I need to enter the land of as-pain-free-as-possible.

And I love him.

The coolest moment was this:

I came off a rant, describing my pain, the red-hot pokers jabbed halfway through my torso from the back, six on each side of my spine, the constant marathoner's lactic acid burn in my legs, the aching in my arms that makes them feel swelled like spinached Popeye, the always-on migraine (and its friends nausea, phono- and photophobia), and he said

"Don't take this the wrong way, and don't get mad... but I really wouldn't want to be you.

"To the extent I can imagine what it must be like to be you, I wouldn't trade places with you for anything. You have to go to U of M, to Detroit, to Chicago... You have to get on a program that Dr 9 can stick to..."

I thanked him because he was the only one who hadn't condescended to me after my pain-description tirade. "Oh my god I'm so sorry. Try to stay positive." Christ. Let me douse you with gasoline, light a match and you try to fucking stay positive.

The good doctor is going to stay (very) late to dictate a message to Dr 9 to tell him that I need to get on an extremely aggressive pain management protocol. And he's going to follow up.

He cares.

Caring is creepy for a doctor to do in this purgatory of a town.

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CONFESSIONS OF A MAN INSANE ENOUGH TO LIVE WITH BEASTS!

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_ss_gw/104-7667416-3791943?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=CONFESSIONS+OF+A+MAN+INSANE+ENOUGH+TO+LIVE+WITH+BEASTS&x=0&y=0

Coming out of the doctor's office feeling worse than you did when you came in is something fibromyalgians do maybe even half the time. How sick is that?

Happened to me today. Walked in with a headache that rated a 7/10. Was given anti-emetic and Maxalt plus trigger-point injections. My leg (left) had been going numb on me again. Feeling returned. Much rejoicing.

Then full-on migraine struck. half-hour later, more Maxalt. Toradol injected IM (or it could have been cat piss for all the good it did or ever does). Nothing more given. No relief. Other means sought...

Doctor now suspicious of me because I told him that, because I haven't slept more than five hours in one night since I've been off Percocet, I took a Vicodin last Thursday night to see if it would help me sleep longer. Then I took two Friday night to see if that would work. (No.) I wake up so early because I can't stand the agony of being on my back and sides any longer than a few hours and have to get onto my feet.

The only parts of my body that aren't constant pain-producers are the bottoms of my feet, my palms, my balls, and my dick. Let's hope the feet-bottoms stay painless, because I'm not learning how to balance on my hands, let alone my dick -- how could I maintain an erection that way anyway? -- nor am I about to hang myself from some ceiling by my scrotum. If I got off on that having fibro wouldn't be a problem...

But Dr 9 seemed fraught with concern. Wrinkled brow and everything. Fraught. (Who uses that word?) I put him in this state when I told him the above, plus the fact that, when the Maxalt I was given stopped working Saturday afternoon, I started popping Vicodin every hour nonstop.

And why not? Was I not in pain? Was it not lessening that pain? And if it had completely masked that pain, wouldn't I have stopped taking it? (Yes. But Vicodin isn't Percocet, and Percocet isn't IM Demerol, and even IM Demerol isn't up to the task.)

This worried my doctor. Obviously, he's dealing with a patient who will take a lot of Vicodin. And based on my history, it's because I'm in a lot of pain.

Therefore, there's nothing to do but stop prescribing me Vicodin on the weekends, get me in to physical therapy, and pump me full of IV magnesium tomorrow.

Jesus Fucking Christ I was born in an insane asylum.

If anyone sees a big guy who never has spoken, as far as you know, point him my way, please.

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I'M SO TIRED!

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Wow do I not feel like writing this today. Hopefully that should make this short and bittersweet chocolate.

It's too bad I suggested in my last post that I would would offer my musings on the difference between going in for marcaine injections at a clinic and being prescribed Percocet. I think I wrote that the former (I'm unable to look up the post. Basement office, no Internet access) allows the doctor to have complete control on how one's health is managed, while giving a patient a bottle of pills gives him/her the freedom to take more or less depending on their daily allotment of pain.

This situation makes me angry.

So I guess that sums it all up nicely. I really didn't need an entirely new post to write that...

Then again, I can't leave it at that: Percocet is a narcotic painkiller. Pain. Killer. And the way doctors act, apparently they are not in the business of getting rid of pain. And actual pain management doctors behave this way (see a previous post for a hilarious anecdote!).

Doctors act like pain is a good thing for fibro patients to have -- and maybe it is diagnostically, but I've already fucking been diagnosed with an incurable lifelong disease! I have fibro and I'm going to be in some degree of misery the rest of my goddam life. I'm 29 and walk with a fucking cane. And I just cannot motherfucking fathom how it is to anyone's benefit that I not get any relief that doesn't come through a fucking needle, held securely in a doctor's hand.

My favorite reason that doctors have given me for not prescribing narcotic pain relievers is: "But it will just mask your pain." Yes. That is exactly, 100 percent, absolutely the point. And you, doc, are so stupid your wife must tie your shoes.

And isn't masking their (your?) pain what non-fibromyalgians are allowed to do with OTC meds? Christ, I'm sorry I can't simply take a Tylenol and be fine; my Tylenol needs oxycodone to come along for the ride. All non-fibros can mask their pain as easy as it is to hate Hitler, but fibromyalgians are talked to as if our pain is worth keeping around, for some reason... Simply because it's always there. I have gathered that we are supposed to get used to it.

Unfortunately, to date no one with fibro aka fibrositis has gotten the fuck used to it.

And doesn't the fact that it's forever make masking it that much more important? Or does the suicide rate among fibros really need to climb higher?

(Aside: Yesterday I read that a study showed fibromyalgians have an increased chance of getting cancer than non-fibros. The kicks in the nuts just keep on a-coming...)

So, apparently masking fibromyalgians' pain has no worth... It's better to work on dealing with the trigger points themselves (with marcaine injections) at a snail's pace. My doctor was proud of saying that in three months the injections should reduce my headache pain 50 percent. At the time it elated me. And I'm still happy and grateful that this (please please) will happen.

But there's a tails to every penny: In three months I may be a 5/10 on the pain scale. In three agonizing, excruciating months my headache may be only half what it is now, which will mean itstill will be classified as debilitating.

And at the rate of 50 percent, three months, only my goddam headache pain, I should be pain free when I'm Methusula.

[Pain, head: 3/10. Pain, everything else: 9/10.

Anxiety: 9/10.

Writing while angry: Try it on a card to your girlfriend!]

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EVERYTHING CAN KISS MY ASS!

The marcaine is wearing off. Could I get these goddam injections the rest of my life every two weeks? Every day, so doctors can do my entire back, starting at my C1 vertebra, giving me the max daily dose of the solution then going on down to my coccyx then starting all over again in an endless cycle? What relief will that provide?

Everything. fucking. wears. off.

And why are doctors fine with injecting me with a sea of marcaine, but not prescribing a mountain of painkillers?

Is it simply that we're a motherfucking Puritan nation that sticks to The Old Ways? If it isn't, I'm in too much goddam pain right now to think of a better way to be angry about this! ...Still, as a former Catholic, I'm used to the formula: Anything that makes you feel good is wrong. So marcaine burns in the muscle, but gives me relief for two days. Two Kadian could, presumably, do that (I've never taken it -- my experience is with oxycodone and Kadian is extended-release morphine), but without the burn.

But pills are wrong. Pills can be diverted from their intended users...

...Which makes me think I should pull a raid on Lummox Life Care (a hospice with an Orwellian name like all of them). I would steal from only the already dead, and end up with IV bags I would have to store in the snow in the back yard so they stay fresh and sterile. Then I could have myself on a just-perfect drip and write this pablum forever...

Until summer came and the snow melts. Then it would be time to have a serious talk with the parents.

[PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN: 10/10

ANXIETY (repetition of the word is difficult and ineffective... Imagine if you were the noise from the radiator in Eraserhead...): 10/10 -- due, in large part, to how anxious I am about having to be anxious about my pain mismanagement... Fuck I hate the Jesusland.

REMINDER TO CALL DISABILITY LAWYERS TOMORROW: Very important. I have to get my back-pay and get the hell out of Lummox and to a city where there is concrete and public transportation and doctors who accepted long ago that fibro is motherfucking real! (I'm anxious.)]

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MARCAINE! MARCAINE! MARCAINE!

No more talk of Percocet: The taste of a new generation is marcaine injections!

I saw my new GP two days ago (I'll be staying with this guy at least until I start up my usual drug-seeking), and he gave me Marcaine injections into one trigger point per shoulder. I don't know how he found what were, apparently, the exact places he needed to inject, since my shoulders are (were? I think I get to use past tense about this for once) knotted as a forest of oak trees. (Ugh. What a horrible metaphor. Grade-school shit. And I apologize.... I feel decent right now and don't want to write. If I'm not in withdrawal, pissing off doctors and shrinks or being a general douchebag, where's the drama? What's the pull?... Please see past posts while I work this out...)

But he did find these magical places and stabbed me with needles and injected the Marcaine solution. He then held the needle in my muscle until the headache I've had all my life lifted off my skull, from the injection site upward.

I then repeatedly threatened the doctor with various signs of affection, but didn't follow through because the med student who was with the doctor didn't seem like the voyeuristic type. And he didn't give the shots, so he wasn't about to get to join in.

But as I walked out of the clinic, I began to believe I was getting my headache back. However, it was just my inability to process the fact I was pain-free from the shoulders up. I didn't feel achy or in pain, but... it felt like the shadow of a headache... Like it was a physical entity, a fog encompassing my head, trying to get back in -- pushing inward from all sides.

As of this writing the relief has gone down my back... The day after the injections I could feel the rest of my body for the first time, without a headache. And it hurt like fucking hell. I took half a Percocet in the afternoon because I wanted to outrun my back, where most of the agony came from. I've seen dogs chase their tails, and the outcome is never very good or interesting. Today, though, is actually a good day.

Then again, I've taken today the five pills a friend gave me yesterday. This Person described them as "better than Klonopin." I thought if they were a lot better, she was giving me the cup of christ. But This Person seemed to give them up too easily for me to be receiving that artifact in dissolvable pill form...

However, the two I took in the morning knocked me out for a few hours, which is a tall feat for any drug, so I would have to say they might eclipse Klonopin. Naturally, further study is warranted... But, then, I wouldn't want to get hooked on anything I can't get my own Rx for...

Or this 5/10 day [the pain scale encroaches upon the body text!] is brought to us by the increase in Lyrica and Prozac taking hold. It's been about a month since the increase, and if the extra mgs are going to do anything, the starting gun should be going off about now.

Or the majority of what seems to be a miracle of science is not that at all, and is due to me being in a waning period. I'd hate it to be that, but know it must be a big part of me not being in so much pain.

...Mustn't it?

[I'm going to cause massive civil unrest by ending this post here, lamely. It's been boring as hell anyway.

Anxiety: 5/10

Willingness to crank out crap: Apparent.]

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THIS TITLE ISN'T MORRISSEY-RELATED!

...though he and The Smiths are the best thing to listen to when you're down. Nothing else (and I like The Cure, too) allows you to wallow deep deep down in your own misery.

Moving on!

It seems (with crossed toes) that I may have been granted a reprieve. This happens to fibro patients -- the agony waxes and wanes. I think the more popular term is that we fibromyalgians (I prefer this term to "fibromyalgics." A fibromyalgian sounds like an alien, and to most people and most doctors we're the closest they'll get to seeing one) have flares, and I think this term is wrongly and stupidly applied to us. A flare would be an exacerbation of what is our normal, baseline pain. And we wish. The truth is that the so-called flare is the norm and the very limited relief of very limited duration --maybe a month out of a year -- is our reality.

The truth, like everything else, fucking hurts.

My reprieve happens to occur just as I'm coming off Percocet -- had my last one yesterday -- and the parents are making hay into gold on that score. Mom especially. I reminded her that it's an amazingly impossible thing for my cessation of taking pain relieving medications (I'm getting off Effexor and Mirapex too) to cause pain relief. And I've also reminded my parents that their pleas to allow me to "let the new meds work" and their reminders that the increase in Prozac and Lyrica, plus the addition of Cymbalta in about two weeks need a couple months to work are likely to have a downside:

In about six months (if I'm still in Lummox, so help me and my too-kind parents -- had to get that plug in because I have one trifle with them maybe once a month. Maybe. ...That, and they're keeping me alive) whatever the Effexor and Mirapex did for me is going to end, and they may have an entirely different animal on their hands. I've gone off my anti-anxiety meds before -- they work, ergo you're not weird, ergo you don't need meds -- and it has always been almost exactly six months before I found myself in an ER, thinking I was having a heart attack, knowing differently, but having a king-hell panic attack and in need of sedation, a referral to a doctor, and relief from the 49 percent of me that believed I really was having a heart attack.

The thing about having panic and generalized anxiety disorders? If I have an actual heart attack, I'll likely be older and more accustomed to the king-hell panic attacks I wake up with every morning. So if I wake up with a real heart attack, that should pretty well do me in. I'll just take a Klonopin and brush it off.

I hope I'm not the only one who finds that hilarious.

[Pain (the scales are back!): 7.5/10 -- It's not a big improvement, but it's still an improvement... However temporary.

Anxiety: 8/10 -- Good as gold!

Self-negating title: You read it, You can't un-read it!]

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VIVA HATE!

Today I write you from the second story of my parents' house, as was my original intent. Heretofore I had been sneaking in my posts -- guarding them from everyone's eyes by switching to different Web sites whenever I was interrupted in the office/computer room. Today I'm using AbiWord on my Mac -- the computer downstairs is a PC (yuck!) -- because I can't get NeoOffice to work out. Abi isn't showing my apostrophes, and I would be incredibly worried about this except:

IT'S FINALLY REAL, NASTY, WANNA DRINK A BOTTLE OF GRAIN ALCOHOL TO (maybe possibly) DULL THE PAIN WITHDRAWAL TIME!

I'm out of Percocet. Well, not completely out -- I'm saving some for when I have to or want to be around other people, which I can't do unless I take high doses of strong painkillers... No, the SSRIs SNRIs NSRIs antispasmodics psychotherapy et cetera et cetera et cetera in any combination simply aren't enough for this little black duck. I'm special that way.

Which brings us to why I'm writing upstairs, finally, in what used to be my older brother's bedroom but is now mine for some reason (the change happened when I moved south): It's Time To Talk Shit About the Parents! Plus, I'd rather they think I'm jerking off or... well, pretty much anything but writing. Why? Because I'm writing, but haven't sold anything... So I'm a non-writer who is writing.

...I don't like the term blogger, but I couldn't say why. Probably because most blogs give opinions or useful information or infotainment or when twins are going to be of legal age, and I'm pretty sure this blog (or whatever it is) does none of those.

Anyway, wanted to write that I am in the full-on hell of full-on withdrawal. It was a lot easier the first two times. I should look up a real blog to figure out why. So it's too bad there is no InterWeb connection in this room.

Oh well... At least people feel like they should knock on a bedroom door. Even if someone is typing like mad, they still may be rubbing one out. Guys can jerk off standing on their heads. We're special that way.

Do women use euphemisms for masterbating, too? Do they have about 100 different ways to describe it? What do you (women) call it? America wants to know...

Now to end transmission... I can't take any more of this because my skin is crawling and I have to keep up with it. Also, I may vomit. Or just dry heave for a while.

Sorry I haven't talked shit about the parents. I'll do a lot of that in the future. In fact, I'll do a lot of talking shit about everyone I know because I'm a jackass who hates everyone. Or maybe I just can't understand them...

Let me end with this warning: If you grew up in a small town, don't move to a city then leave and go back, for whatever reason. Even for your own funeral. My migraines are made worse by the light shimmering off the foot of snow that covers everything, and my overall person is made worse by the attitudes of my parents and hick-ass doctors. Why didn't they go to X of X (and I write that as an XXX alum) and come out knowing something about fibro? About anything?

And why are my parents treating me worse as I feel worse for your god's sake? I know I'm acting like an asshole... How am I supposed to act when I have to stay in unlighted rooms (read: the basement) because of my migraines? And how am I supposed to act when I feel like I'm in Arizona for 15 minutes and the Yukon the next? And why why why and how how how...
Goddam it, it took me ten minutes to get up two flights of fucking stairs! Should I be happy-go-lucky about that one?

OK, there's the talking shit part after all. I know, far too little.

Anyway, now to put this in my jump drive and put it where you're reading it.

PS: If you can find me, and if you can afford it, maybe you can give me... OXYCONTIN! (Bullet holes spell "OxyContin" as the shots ring...)

PPS: Wrote this yesterday, but didn't get to upload it until today. I'm lazy. Or my every living moment is torture due to opiate withdrawal and fibro. If this that doesn't tug at your every heart string, remember that even the Devil deserves sympathy...

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I KNOW IT'S GONNA HAPPEN SOME DAY!

I begin my New Year with a mammoth migraine, which three Percocet 10/325s didn't touch. (The "10/325" refers to the pills consisting of 10mg oxycodone, which is what god eats for breakfast, and 325mg APAP, aka Tylenol, aka just about the best way to ruin your liver.)
But enough of that, for now... There will definitely be more complaining later. At the moment, here are some resolutions (you'll notice all are contingent on Number One...):

1, sorta.: To get on Social Security Disability finally finally finally (my first decision is due before May. ...That is, the first go-round in which People of Authority say whether I'm fucked up enough to qualify for SSD. I think about 1/3 of people are successful here. What I'll call the second pass is an administrative hearing.

You stand in front of a judge, who has seen all the evidence and made up her/his mind (read it in chambers, which is why s/he was an hour late opening the courtroom door and getting things started, even though you saw a person with a face just like her/his drinking deeply from a flask in their car in the parking lot... But it was the public lot, so it couldn't have been her/him... Or could it? People who are drinking at 7:00 usually are keeping things going from the night before, and certainly not rational). I'll be wearing a suit and sporting a cane, grunting with every move and, when I have to stand before her/hizzoner -- if I have the grapes -- I'll tell the maybe-lush that "It's a bad day, and if your honor doesn't mind, I believe I should sit for this."

In other words, I'll be standing. But, to prove I'm not a complete wuss (and if my case even goes to The Hearing...), I'll lean on my cane until it breaks. Or at least bends...

AND SO YOU MUST STAY TUNED BLOGFRIENDS!

OK, finally 2. To pay my parents back for room and board with the back-pay from the above. SSD pays you for some of the time you had to have a suck-ass life waiting for your benefits to come through.

Still, comparatively, my waiting period is likely better than many people's. My parents have a big house, a Wii, and the basement I call home is about 1,000 square feet. Plus I can TiVo Twin Peaks episodes... Though my daily watching of it is making me believe everyone in my town is a killer, and that strange forces exist in our woods...).

3. To move to Portland, Oregon with the rest of the weirdos.

4. To get and grow medicinal marijuana. (Legally, after number three -- so Michigan cops put away your batons!) All the Web forums and more and more medical literature is showing that it's one of the best things for pain. I read one where it topped everything but Kadian. And that's extended-release morphine, kids.

5. To buy a scooter! I imagine a great number of people in this country will say or think that doing so is "gay." However, the act of purchasing something cannot have a sexual orientation. And if you think you're insulting something by calling it "gay," don't make it a transaction... A swap of money for goods. Where's the fun in it?

Anyway, I'd like to think that going 60 mph on a seat cushion would earn someone a modicum of respect.

...My insecurities aside, if I have a scooter, I'll already be in Portland where, I hear, the scooter scene thrives. So riding a scooter won't be "gay," it will be, um... "Not-gay"? Whatever. Screw homophobes and screw using "gay" as slander.

6. Enjoy my retirement by writing books about writing books and losing weight on the food stamp diet.

7. Buy a big-ass teevee and a Wii! ...Because I'll have a lot of spare money for expensive items on SSD. Why do you think people refer to it as being awarded benefits?

OK, that's seven, and seven is enough for this morning, as I wait for my Klonopin and Percocet to take affect. But, since I could only take about 1/4 my normal dose of each because I'm being forced off them (see other ranting posts) I'll probably still get 3/4 the pain, migraine, spasms, etc.

Consarn it.

[Overall disposition: bubbly as champagne!]

Mixx it!

LAZINESS IS POSTING AN E-MAIL!

Someone e-mailed me, having just found out that I have fibro through the Interwebs. She told me she has been in pain for years and her doctor, who has been giving her Lyrica for years, has thought she's had fibro for years. My response is below (notice the emphasis on drugs drugs drugs, even though I don't know whether Lyrica works like an atomic clock for her)... Also notice that I am, in fact, sleazy:

Begin:

There is one thing you must do immediately: Find a doctor who PRESCRIBES OPIOIDS! I can't stress that enough. I get pain relief only from them, but the asshole doctors I've found in Lummox [I change the names of people and places, nothing else -Ed.] won't write scripts for them (especially since I was taking one bomber of an amount of Percocet... Which still didn't work close to well enough! -- even my DC doctor was super-reluctant to get me on COAT -- Continuous Opioid Analgesic Therapy... but he WAS going to, right before I was yanked home by my parents (I was having a very very nasty flare).

[Wow! I can't use punctuation properly! -Ed.]

So I never have been able to experience anything close to 100 percent relief. Which makes me pissed off enough to write a blog. How nerdy and 1990s is that? I write a blog...Well, my first book wasn't picked up through the traditional channels (it sucks), so maybe I can sell my diary...

OK -- also, get yourself some Ritalin or Provigil. I'd be on the latter if my doctors had any desire to allow me to be somewhat awake and coherent during the day. Might as well get some kick-ass speed while you're at it....

And -- stop.

Wow. Rants like those just pop right out.

Anyway, of course I remember you! In fact (not to be off-putting or sleazy), the last time I recall seeing you was at Mutual Friend's graduation party. I was drinking a fifth of Bombay Sapphire and kinda hitting on you. Later it was tent time and I was between you and Erin Lastname (how is she doing? any idea?), trying to decide if I should make a move on you or not -- despite Erin being there.

The booze must have gotten to me... Then again, not enough for me to actually try something, get rejected, and possibly kicked out of the last available tent.

So that's that... Sorry it had to be weird.

OK, so yep, I have fibro, but I'm having pretty good days now. The flare is over, and things are pretty calm now.

EXCEPT I'm coming off some pills (including my beloved sweet divine Percocet so save me jeebus), and it's making me more aware of the world. Which sucks, because I'm stuck at my parents' house. Goddam it.

Sorry to be lengthy

--DBM

[Pain: I will discontinue this portion -- I'm coming off Percocet, etc. and onto the all-natural hell that will be me without it. Not the withdrawal, mind you, but the pain of being alive. With fibro. So figure it's 1,500/10 until this feature resumes, or is brought back by popular demand. Wuss.

Anxiety: 10/10. I'm freaked right the fuck out all the fucking time.

Being lazy enough to post an e-mail: Hey that's pretty lazy!

Sleazy?: Umm-um!]

Mixx it!

WITHDRAWAL!

I'm detoxing for the holidays. Stepping down off Percocet 10/325s by increments of one pill every five days. Right now I'm taking four per day instead of the normal five... Well, normal was six, which barely masked my pain enough for me to walk three blocks in a day... A day that would ensure that I would be on bed rest for the following two days.

So five wasn't enough, but was all I could get from the GP I had. He dropped me because he didn't want to deal with a fibromyalgian. And he didn't want to deal with a fibromyalgian who is seeing a pain clinic that is horribly averse to writing scripts themselves. If they had their way, a GP would write all their prescriptions.

Have I made the point that the pain (no "management") clinic I'm seeing is totally fucked up?
And I know it isn't fair -- I haven't described my dealings with my GP in enough detail yet. I assure you such will follow... Perhaps when I don't want to tear my teeth out...

Anyway, the posts may have more time between them. Or maybe not. Writing -- getting things out -- can be therapeutic. In fact, I'm surprised the good people at QPC didn't prescribe it.
OH -- and sorry this is going to be an aside, basically -- I also am in the process of getting off Mirapex and Effexor and dear sweet Klonopin because all QPC will prescribe me is Lyrica. Lyrica Lyrica Lyrica by the mouthful. So how does 900mg of Lyrica stand up to Percocet 10/325s times five? It's a knockout in the first 10 seconds of round one... The winner? You're aware.

No segue -- I'm thinking about taking five Percocets a day until they run out. Why stretch out the misery? I know I'm experiencing less of it because of the (all too brief) step-down I'm doing, but am becoming convinced it would be better to go cold turkey (or turkee, if you prefer) from five. I've always preferred ripping off the Band-aid instead of trying to be gentle and taking five minutes and experiencing each individual hair being ripped out as separate events.

Will keep you, dear reader, up to date on any such decision. Until next time, I write you from Purgatory.

(My own, since the Holy Catholic Church decided there isn't one any longer...)

[Pain: from 10/10.

Anxiety: 10/10.

Self-righteousness: set to 10/10 and stuck there.]

Mixx it!