It’s 4:48 in the morning, and I’m just updating to let everyone know that I have failed. It’s been slightly twenty-four hours since I took off my last Fentanyl patch, and while that should have been empty, I am feeling shakes and general sickness. Nausea. Fever. Insomnia. I have to have these. I am on my last box, and there’s at least another week or more before I can even call in for another prescription. I have tried many times to no longer need these patches, but there’s something really wrong with me because I cannot quit using them. Maybe my mother and my harasser (there was only one; if she comes back and harasses me some more, I’ll expose all that I have on her, but for now, she’s leaving me alone, and there have been no other threats made against me online or off, so I’m returning the favor) were right when they said that I was a chronic drug addict. My mother throws those words at me when she wants to bully something out of me.

Whether it’s money, merchandise, or “favors” to house her criminally insane friends for the weekend, she throws insults at me and berates me. That used to work, when I was about six years old. She got a kick out of it. She would threaten to throw me out in the elements, make me, a little child, beg her for mercy to let me stay there. There were times when she would push me out the front door, and because I would scream loud enough for the neighbors to hear and turn their heads, she would snatch me back inside the house, before they called child services. But I never had that luxury. I never had the privilege of being in a foster home, away from that physical, mental, and emotional torture and abuse. I constantly think about it when I am alone, on nights like this, when I am (still!) burning DVDs for her because she has lost her copy that I sent her months ago, and will most likely end up on her floor, being kicked around the garbage strewn around her bedroom floor, destined to be scratched beyond playable repair (even though I give her cases, sleeves and ziplock baggies to store the DVDs in), which will only cause her to wake me up again in the middle of the night to make her a new disc. Good thing I have archived copies of these movies. Or is it?

With that, I am going to get a small snack, a drink, and some more opioids. At least I can sleep through whatever demons come scratching on my door tonight. That’s the purpose of taking the medicine anymore. I have pain, but it’s not physical, and the psychologists, therapists, and psychoanalysis professionals can’t fix me. Failure is a good word to describe me, even if I was not the first to think it, I am certainly the first to admit to it.