Normally, I go to the bed—to my beloved Tempur-Pedic bed—at 10:00 p.m., fall asleep by 10:45 p.m. to a show on the Science Channel then wake up at 6:40 a.m. (or on the weekend 8:00 a.m.), it’s my schedule, it’s what I do. It never fails and it never wavers. Until last night.
I headed to bed, as usual, turned on the Science Channel, as usual and laid in my sea of pillows waiting for sleep to overcome me, but it didn’t. 10:45 p.m. passed, no big deal, 11:00 p.m., can’t be long now, 11:45 p.m., tossing and turning, 12:15 a.m., burning flesh and itching, 12:30 a.m., headache, 12:45 a.m., shooting pains coursing through the body, 12:50 a.m., aching legs, 12:55 a.m., spinning, 1:00 a.m. panic.
I was having full-blown withdraws from that evil red syrup that that evil greedy doctor prescribed to me. I didn’t even realize it until I woke up Rey (who had to be to school early this morning), in a sweaty fit of panic and described to him the symptoms. “It sounds like you’re kicking dope,” he informed me, “go take some OxyContin.” But I didn’t want to take OxyContin, especially not if I was having withdraws because taking it only meant that I’d have to face the horrors of withdraws another day.
So, we stayed up for the next hour and a half as I cried and twitched on the bed. I finally caved at 2:30 a.m. and fell asleep with that sweet, red syrup coursing through my veins at 3:00 a.m.
Being addicted to a drug is not a pretty thing.