DOSE:

Pharms - Fentanyl

BODY WEIGHT:

105 lb

I understand the need for drugs in an unstable society, one where we all play victims and bystanders intermittently in our own lives. It seems clear, especially to a fan of Bukowski and Pirsig, that the pressure of being in an artificial plastic life of controlled factory work, all of us the same yet at war without our individual consent... These things do weigh on us all. Anyone I've ever known with the intellectual capacity to despise existence as it stands has fallen in love with themselves and drugs.

That being said, I would like to explain what these painkiller patches have done to my mother and those who love her.

When I was a child, she was that strong figure that would do anything she wanted without caring about consequences. She had a small break in her neck and still took me to disneyworld before getting it checked out, that's how tough that woman was. I have a million stories, but that story is where this all began.

She went to the doctors, they put a plate in her neck and filled her with painkillers. Months went by where I was practically bottle feeding her. I barely went to school, I dressed her and fed her. The woman in the pictures on the wall, sitting on her motorcycle or brushing her horse, was now crying constantly.

The years meld together in my memory. Somewhere between the ages of 7 and 10, I had completely lost my mother. Within the past five or six years (a rough estimate) they began giving her fentanyl patches for this mysterious 'chronic pain disorder.'

In relation to this drug, she has become a skeleton that wants to commit suicide. It was depressing, now it feels repetitive. Do you know what it's like to commit your mother to a mental institution? Or to beg her not to kill herself right before going to work? Why do they keep her on these patches after so many years? She's not even alive anymore. She barely exists. I want her back. I want the woman that fixed my cuts and scratches, the woman that punished me for sneaking out of the house. Instead, I did whatever I wanted since 14, and if I ever asked her for advice she just told me about all the pain. Phantom pain. It's all ghosts. I can't even hear her over them anymore. We all know it's too late, but the whole family plays around her as though she's behind that blank stare.

And I'll leave this message, go downstairs and say hi to her while I make coffee. I'll hug her hello, with my well-practiced self control to keep me from pulling away at the feeling of bones beneath her shirt. I'll say 'Oh?' and 'Yeah.' at everything she mumbles because it doesn't make a difference. And then happily trot out into the world as though I was raised in a nice home that wasn't filled with empty pills bottles and trash piled taller then me. I'll pretend she used to make me breakfast before school, instead of the fact that she got out of bed after I had come home from school and made dinner.

I just hope you people seeking relief realize how weak you become, and how weak that makes society. The quality of life goes down the more you seek comfort. I paid for her comfort with my childhood. I paid for it with every graduation, recital, and play I couldn't invite her to. I'll always love her, but she died years ago. These patches just keep her corpse walking around.

Exp Year: 1999	ExpID: 74323
Gender: Female
Age at time of experience: Not Given
Published: Nov 12, 2015	Views: 2,696
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Pharms - Fentanyl (223) : Addiction & Habituation (10), Second Hand Report (42), Medical Use (47), Not Applicable (38)