Back in the day, my drug of choice was oxycodone. I moved back home to take care of my Mom who was dying from cancer. We were never that close, my Mom and I. She had always made me feel like I was never good enough, that I never lived up to her expectations. I was an only child. My father had died when I was a kid and there was no one else to take care of her.
I moved back to my home town when my Mom couldn’t look after herself anymore. The thing is, the cancer didn’t make her any nicer to me. It was hell taking care of her and having her pick apart the things I was doing wrong in my life – my career (or lack thereof), my relationships (or lack thereof), etc. In her final days, I was giving her oxycodone, which was prescribed to her to dull her pain. I remember that afternoon like it was yesterday. In a moment of weakness, feeling shitty about my life and about my relationship with my Mom, and sitting there literally watching her die, I took one of her oxycodone pills.
It made me feel so much better. At first, I felt mellow. Serene, even. Calm. Nothing could bother me. Then I needed to move. That first afternoon, I danced. I put on my favorite music and I danced. For hours.
I lost my Mom a few days later. I had already refilled her oxycodone prescription and I took it with me. It wasn’t long before I upped the dosage I was taking and starting crushing the pills and snorting them. There was some kid who sold drugs in my building and one day, while high, I approached him about getting me more. He said it wasn’t a problem.
Soon after, I was stealing from my job, skimming a little off the top, just to keep me in supply. It wasn’t long until I was caught at work and I got fired. Everything just spiraled out of control from there. It was some old college friends that finally convinced me to get help. I still miss it. I miss the euphoric feeling. I can’t let myself think about it for too long. One day at at time.