The sweet, clean high of Vicodin, I will never forget. That exalted sense of optimism and quiet elation, the release from the troubles of life. Peace.
For years I needed it. I was born with the mother of all pain diseases, Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, a genetic disorder that causes nervous system dysfunction, extreme pain, debilitating fatigue and overly flexible joints _ yes, contortionism.
My case of Ehlers-Danlos is particularly severe. At age 13, my feet, knees and back exploded in pain. I could hardly drag my tired body around school. By the time I was 20, I regularly begged for a guillotine for my neck agony.
By 2008 I had reached the limits of what I could endure. Instead of following through with suicide plans, I spoke with my doctor, who prescribed me opiates.
This was long before the opioid epidemic and subsequent government restrictions. Doctors back then still believed this was a safe way to treat chronic pain. I wasn't offered another choice. What would have worked for pain like mine?
I was afraid. I knew these drugs were heroin in another form. But after I started, I instantly regretted having waited so long.
My prescription was for Vicodin and morphine paired with the muscle relaxant carisoprodol. I took this cocktail every night for six years, so I could sleep.
"You may never be able to get off," my doctor told me as he wrote the first script for morphine.
What did "never" mean? I wondered but did not ask. It didn't matter. There was no treatment for Ehlers-Danlos. I swore silently to myself that if I ever got lucky enough to get well, I would do whatever it took to get off.
At night, when I took my tiny pills, I was transported to a realm where there are no problems. It felt so fake, so obviously chemically induced, but deeply soothing, nonetheless.
Per the medical definition, I was not an addict. I was never drug-seeking, never doctor shopping, never secretly taking more than I said, never taking for emotional relief. I reduced my intake as my Ehlers-Danlos improved. As the result of an experimental treatment, my body became able to heal and build muscle. No more mysterious bruises. No more skin tearing. I went back to physical therapy, which had gotten me nowhere in the past. This time I progressed.
I asked the pharmacist for advice on quitting my painkillers.
"Go as slowly as you can," she said.
So I tapered.
Acute withdrawal _ when you still have drugs in your system but less than you are used to _ started with nervous jitters, insomnia and stomach distress. Not too bad, I thought.
But soon every cell in my body screamed for Vicodin. In a life filled with pain, even I never knew such anguish could exist.
I couldn't think straight. I surprised myself by yelling at people or bursting into tears over nothing. Every human interaction hurt.
My stomach got so bad, I thought I was dying. "Opiate withdrawal," the gastroenterologist said.
I stopped titrating and parked my dose where it was, too sick to go lower.
How could such itty-bitty pills have such a hold over me? Then Philip Seymour Hoffman left rehab, overdosed and died. I put my head down on my desk and wept.
Now I understood.
