The Broken Soldier

I apologize for the camp images the title of this post conjure.  Young white people in severely tight tucked-in technicolor clothing awkwardly dancing.  But I’m feeling good today.  Not sure why.  Not sure I need or care to know why.

It’s a beautiful day.  The sun is shining.  My neighbors are out, and I spent time with each of them doing a bit post-long winter catching up.  I’m feeling stronger today.  So much so I actually did some stuff.  I cut the grass with the Jimison-powered push mower - which I affectionately call the “Al Gore 2000.”  I washed the bulldog, and took her for a walk around the block, stopping frequently to allow kids and tickled older folks to pet her.  I’m sure I’ll pay for it tomorrow.  In fact, I have some sense the payment’s in the post already.  But today is good.  And I thank God for it.

It’s been a while now.  My blood serum levels are and likely have been zero for at least four days.  I’m more depressed.  More anxious.  More sensitive.  More pained.  More insomnious.  More strange sensations, possibly additional spine problems a bit further up, affecting both arms, creating a feeling of wanting to tear the flesh from them.  With the opioid veil lifted, more everything.  Well, everything but more activity.

My best friend’s dad died this past week.  There’s something very unsettling about seeing a stodgy McGill logician weep.  Similar I imagine to stumbling upon a mandrill reading The Wall Street Journal.  I did my best to console him.  He said it helped.  Though I feel in my heart of hearts that my efforts were ineffective.  Well-intended platitudes, sapid as they were vacuous, and philosophical vagaries designed to distract him, and me, from the terrible realities of this nightmare existence.

Every cell of me wants to be on the fancy pharmaceutical smack again.  I’ve actually been licking the plastic backing to which the patches adhese from the garbage bin by my bed set.  What the fuck have I become?  And how the fuck do I get out of this?  At least I’ve not blown anyone for drugs.  So yeah, there’s that to be proud of.  Strange how metrics change.

But every cloud has a shit-sandwich lining.  I found my presence is required at Knox before I’m treated.  Move meat A to location B and back.  My understanding why and the suffering these trips have caused in the past and will cause in the future don’t seem important to those with a need to know and the power to make decisions. Something about needing me there to read the civilian doctors’ reports.  Maybe Dr. Toon needs me there to tell him what certain medical terms mean?  Anyway, Sarah and I will get busy savin’ so we can afford to stock up on gas and Depends.