I scrounged up the last of my klonopin and a tizanidine, took 3 222’s and passed out for a while. That helped. But really, it’s kinda pathetic. I will cut myself some slack because I’m sick on top of everything, though my voice is coming back.

I’ve been searching the intertube for blogs like mine. You know, stories of people who are trying to quit opiates, who are going to use suboxone to do it, and possibly even who have depression as well. Maybe I’m just looking in the wrong places, but no such luck.

Tonight is the last night that I should be taking any pills. Mr.B gave me some morphine (my least favorite) but hopefully we’ll come up with something a bit more fun for my bon voyage. If not, wev.

I told him, well I squeaked to him, my concern about being bored and not knowing what I’d do when I didn’t have the pills anymore. He said: Maybe we could, you know, go out and do stuff, the way we used to? Maybe you’ll start writing again, or dancing, or hiking.

The way he said it just made me feel so sad. I look around my house, which is a FEMA level disaster zone, and I think about all the days and nights that I’ve sat in this chair, doing not much of anything. Hell, it’s been half a year since he’s even been able to drag me out to a movie. It’s just so hard for me to be social when I’m depressed, and since the pills aren’t making me happy anymore, I’m pretty much permadepressed.

Anyway, the way he said it, which was just pretty matter-of-fact and not with any kind of judgement, made me realize how incredibly not here I’ve been. That’s really sad. And, whoo-hoo! I get to confront that sadness, along with the zillion other sadnesses I’ve stored up over these past months pretty fucking soon I guess.

I have some hopes though, and some plans. I want things to be good again. I really want to take advantage of the counseling that I’ll get through the study. The study Doc thought I have some unresolved PTSD issues (hey, water is wet!) and that maybe that was the root of everything, everything that has subsequently gone awry in my life, so much for my agency, but that if I addressed those issues then maybe I could be cured.

If only he knew what a fucking tangled mess of thorny branches those issues are. We’re talking 20 years of me self-medicating, going to therapy but only saying what I think they want to hear, never wanting to talk about what’s really wrong. God, I don’t even know if I know what’s really wrong. All I know is that I doubt there’s a magic button that if I get to it, it will all fall away and there I’ll be, shiny and clean and new. Yeahright.

But at least this time, maybe I can try. Maybe.