Painkiller Jane

I’m clawing my way into day five of recovery looking like a prisoner of war. Over the past four days, I’ve eaten no more than one Quaker’s cinnamon bun oatmeal packet, half an order of my favorite Mexican restaurant’s beans, and one can of Progresso Chicken Rotini Soup. I no longer comprehend the meaning of the word “food.” My world revolves exclusively around OxyContin and frozen Gatorade.

Actually, I’m lying about the last part, I couldn’t care less about frozen Gatorade—despite having drank nine gallons of fierce melon in the last 48 hours—what I really care about are my drugs. That sweet, red syrup that courses through my veins is what keeps me pushing on. It’s also what keeps me incessantly itching around the clock, but I don’t care, I’ve come to love the “heroin itch,” as Rey so lovingly calls it, and I think my skin looks nice with red scratch marks raked across my body.

That syrup, my handheld mirror, my purple flashlight and my digital thermometer are what I’ve been reduced to in this time of darkness. From my twelve-plus pillow bed on the sectional couch in the living room, my existence involves staring into space in a OxyContin-induced stupor, sleeping (only for increments of less than three hours, as not miss an OxyContin dosage), examining the rotten abyss previously known as my throat, taking my temperature, and bitching about my lack of nutritional intake. Really, it’s the life; beats the 9-5 grind, any day.

Now, please excuse me; it’s time for my precious...