Of Scars and Addiction

I'm sorry about that Apocalypse Cow, it's just a surgical scar. A rather nasty one, but I just have to live with it. My weight dropped from 480lbs to 270lbs after the surgery, and is hovering just over 300lbs right now. Basically, it was really worth it. I may still be a fat fuck, but far less so. Last night I looked at my father's abdominal aneurysm surgery scar, and it has every scar beat. It's really an amazing thing. It goes from about 6 inches about his penis and runs around his side to the small of his back. It has to be over two feet long. My scar is a mere 8 inches or so, but it healed in such a way that it looks as if something went wrong. Thankfully, nothing did.

Recently I've started to come to terms with an addiction to narcotics. I've lied convincingly to my psychiatrist and therapist about this problem, but I'm starting to think that I need to just be honest with them. I've been putting this off for a long time. Since I don't often have narcotic pain pills, it never becomes gets to an Elvis/Anna Nicole Smith level of addiction. But it's bad nonetheless. I smoke marijuana, too, but that's not a problem. It's not addictive and actually works very well with anxiety and guilt. The narcotics do the same thing, but in a much different way. They provide a lot of energy and a feeling of well-being, but the addiction is a serious matter. The chronic pain I experience between my legs and in my lower back is treated well with tramadol and ibuprofen, and the migraines I sometimes get respond to Zomig. Medically, I have no need for narcotics, they just are so effective against depression.

Back in the day I would go to the ER and compain of back pain just to get Vicodin or Percocet. In my life I've done that perhaps a dozen times, although not for years. That gives you an idea, however, of how addictive they are. When I run out of weed, it's a bummer but no big deal. If I've been on narcotics for a time and run out, it's an ugly feeling. So no more of that. Do I share too much information here on my blog? I don't really care. Most people who read it are my friends or people I consider potential friends. Fellow Travellers, you might say.

After my little photo shoot at my computer last night, I went for a late night walk. First over to the old apartment to check on the rose bush. It's not doing well, and will have to be transplanted. I'd like to move it to Linda's place. There's a deep anxiety about Linda, as well. I love her, and that puts me in a position where I'm at the mercy of another. The first time I fell in love it was a horror show. I worked an overnight shift at a hotel in Boston and every night for months was spent thinking about unrequited love. My inability to move past it killed our friendship, and for that I have profound regret.

Being in love is wonderful, but it's a fearful precipice on which to stand. And if she doesn't love me, I want to know it when she does. So there it is, a recipe that can create a delicious meal for two, or a shit sandwich for one. We'll see what happens, but I know how limited my appeal is, given my lack of money...any money.

My psychiatric medication needs to be tweaked, and to do that I may have to go into hospital for a week or so. I haven't been in a psychiatric ward for several years, but I'm afraid when radical changes are made to my medication profile. I know how appealing suicide can look to a fellow like me. In a couple of weeks I talk to my psychiatrist and therapist. At that point I'll know what the next step will be. I briefly considered ECT, but I'm probably going to take a pass on that...I'm not sure.

Bong Hits 4 Jesus, everyone.