Today started out with a really great outfit. I’ve lost a little weight lately, and I bought myself a new skirt yesterday, to celebrate my big step into the abyss of sobriety and I thought I’d get started on the second day of my awesome new life with a fashionable new ensemble.

Well, that was practically the only thing that worked out today.

I went in for my second dose of suboxone, and based on my stellar performance on yesterday’s 8mgs, they thought 12 would be a good dose for today and throughout the weekend. There was some sort of snafu at the pharmacy, and it took a while for my pills to materialize, which put me behind schedule for another appointment I had. So, I sat there waiting for the 8mg pill to dissolve under my tongue, and it was taking for-fucking-ever, and I got impatient and I think I spit out the residual drool a bit too soon. I tried to compensate by keeping the two 2mg pills under my tongue until all hint of orangus-vomitus had dissipated, but it didn’t work. I definitely felt under-dosed, a little sick, and a lot like I wanted to go get high.

There was a slight up-tick in the day’s general downward turn when my healthcare provider obliged me with a letter that should exempt me from participation in the required work-hours to continue getting my benefits. And she complimented my outfit, so at least someone noticed that I’m making an effort.

Back in the car, I could not pry my thoughts away from the weekend’s supply of suboxone sitting in it’s anonymous paper bag, right there in my bag, on the passenger seat. Stuck in traffic, I started with the math. If I just take 2 more mgs, then I’ll feel better for the day, and I’ll still have 10 for tomorrow and 12 for Sunday and then Monday no one will be the wiser. It should be fine, since I did so great on 8 the first day, right? Plus, 10, 12, it’s not that much difference. The study doc even said he might have kept me at 8mgs if the study didn’t require a minimum dose of 12 to get the implants. Now, this whole line of rationalization took about .00025 seconds and the bottle was in my hand and the pill was under my tongue.

And I did feel better. I went home and ate a bananna, and relaxed for a few minutes. Then the phone started with the infernal ringing. Can I drive over here, and drop off this order for work, and pick up this other order, and go get some supplies, and oh, I have no gas money, and Mr. B has a doctor appointment and he’s got a bad cold and thought I’d be taking Little Cappie with me to work and, and, and, I overestimated my abilities to cope.

I packed up Little C and off we went to my job, and I drove a different way than usual because I was trying to pay attention to her running-stream-of-consciousness-narrative about the adventures of the Gummi Bears and what do the parking signs mean when suddenly I see the red & blues flashing behind me. Fuck.

I pull over, my tags are incorrectly displayed, I have no proof of insurance, because I have no insurance. I get a ticket. $550, unless I can cough up proof of insurance within a few days. The cop was nice enough to fix my plates for me though, so I guess I got a kiss with my proverbial screwing.

On to work. Chaos. Dust bunnies. Teething babies. Why won’t that phone stop ringing! Logistical nightmares, and I don’t want to drive all over town picking stuff up and dropping stuff off. The day goes on and I can’t focus, my concentration is gone. My head starts hurting, and the pain chases away cognition. It’s just normal stuff, the regular shit that goes wrong in a day but it’s getting on top of me, I want to run away, I want to not deal, to put it off, but there’s no one to take care of it but me.

Credit to Little C, she sweeps and mops and helps count the money. She pulls it together at the end of the night like a real trooper. I get her to her gramma’s house and back in the car I sit and think I might cry because there will be no fat white line of oxycontin waiting for me when I get home. There will be no ritual of peeling and crushing and chopping the pill, no laying out lines, no passing the glass around. No flooding my aching mind and body with relief. I feel this as a loss, much more profound than I ever thought I would, a hollow space in my chest.

I think: What the fuck am I supposed to do? Honestly.

I think, I could go home and I could do some pills. I might even get high. But I don’t know how that will effect my ability to take my suboxone tomorrow. Will it make me sick? I don’t know. Will it just be a waste of drugs? Do I want to have to tell the study peeps that I used, or do I want to have to lie to them? I guess the fact that I care about any of these questions is progress.

I chose not to do any opiates when I got home. I took a klonopin, but that’s ok because I have a perscription for it. We ordered pizza, and we have Netflix that came today. I have the night off from being mom, and most of tomorrow too. I think I will feel better if I wake up in the morning having made it through a hard day without using, and then I will take my suboxone dose (minus the 2 mgs that I raided for today), and I will feel allright.

I’m trying to believe that doing the right thing, or at least as close to the right thing that I can, will feel better in the long run then getting high will feel right now. This is not a process that I’m familiar with, so I’m going to take it on faith. I think I’ll be ok.

I’m setting a goal for tomorrow. If it is sunny, I will go for a walk outside. If it is not, I will do yoga or dance. If the gods of money smile on me, I will go join that gym and take myself for a swim. I want my body to know other ways of feeling good. I just need to remember.