Last weekend the weather was beautiful. I had worked all week on my job and took Sunday and Monday off. I spent both days cleaning in the house good and when it cooled down in the evening I worked out in the yard. It was heaven. Monday night I got sick. I mean really sick. I started coughing a dry hacking nothing cough that wouldn't stop. By the middle of the night I hurt all over from the coughing and by early morning I literally could not breathe. If you tried to get in touch with God during that time you found his line busy because I had him seriously tied up. I thought I was going to die and I was trying really hard to convince him that I just wasn't ready.
Tuesday morning I went to the doctor. She thought I was going to die in her office because I barely could breathe well enough to tell her what was going on. She wanted to know why I didn't go to the emergency room. I told her it was a long story and that I didn't have enough breath to explain. So she worked with me. She gave me a breathing treatment first thing. Then she gave me two shots in the butt, one of steroids and another of antibiotics. She wrote me a boatload of prescriptions and sent me to the hospital for a chest x-ray. I was breathing a little better, but still struggling.
I came home and started on my prescriptions. When I talked to my brother on the phone, he called my daughter and told her she should get her butt over here and help me. So she showed up Wednesday afternoon. That was fine. I had everything pretty well under control by then, but it was good to know someone was here if I got really bad again.
Dr. April had said to come back on Thursday and let her check me again. So Thursday, my daughter and I went back to the office and I got another breathing treatment, which actually felt good at that point. I had not been able to smoke during all this time, thank goodness, but the anxiety was really getting to me and I didn't want to give in to it. It also made the breathing difficult to be anxious. So she gave me another prescription for my nerves so I would stay calm and not smoke. I was doing really good at this point. Everything she had been giving me to help the breathing was keeping me from sleeping, so I needed the rest. I came in that evening and took a nice warm bath, took a nerve pill and laid down and slept for the first time in four days. It felt good.
Now, I know most of you have probably not paid much attention, but I don't really talk about my children much here. Mainly because I don't want to lie. They are both drug addicts. My daughter being the worse. It's a long sordid story, but Xanax are her drug of choice at this point in her life, so I was a little concerned to have a big bottle of nerve pills in the house with her here. I trusted her though…to a point.
I went in and went to sleep for a few hours. I felt really good when I woke back up about 2:00 this morning. I noticed my daughter had gone to sleep and it was early for her. I got nervous. I took the bottle of nerve pills back to the bathroom and dumped them out and counted them. There were fifteen missing. Fifteen. I was dumbfounded. She knew I needed these pills to help me not smoke. I had anticipated that she may take a couple. I wouldn't have been happy about even two, but fifteen. Are you kidding me?
So rather than confront her head on and get in a big screaming match with her, I wrote a note and left it for her. It said:
You took 15 of them? Really? Did you think I wouldn’t check? Did you think I wouldn’t care? Did you think I’d just be to ditzy to know the fucking difference? Do you really think I’m that stupid? Did I not just sit and cry to you yesterday about how bad this pill use of yours bothered me?
PUT THEM BACK…ALL OF THEM.
We had just had a big talk the first night she was here about her drug use. I couldn't believe it. So I left the note and went back to bed.
When I got up, I found this note back to me:
I didn't take 15. I only took 8 and I didn't take them all at the same time. I took 4 at 5 pm and then I took 4 around 10 or 11 pm. I counted them myself and I know how many I took and so they shorted you seven of them.
And I didn't take them to get high I took them so I could sleep. I guess you have no reason to accept my apology or forgive me. I was wrong. I should have asked you. But I am sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you.
I was furious. Are you kidding me? Now you are going to try to convince me that they shorted me seven out of 60 pills at Walmart? Now I confronted her head on. I said, first of all, how can you take that many pills and still be standing here talking to me? I took a half of one and it put me to sleep in a few minutes time. And I also said, they didn't short me any pills at Walmart. They count pills for a living, probably with machines. Oh no, she said, they count them by hand. I said Ok, they just remodeled this Walmart and I am sure there are cameras all over the place up there, so get dressed because we are going up there and I'm going to tell them that they shorted me these pills and I want to see the video of the man counting them out.
She knew I would actually go through with this threat so she backed off then. Upset again, I went back to my room and laid back down and cried myself to sleep. A couple of hours later, I got up again and came back out and was going to take another half a pill so that I didn't go off on her again. I knew when I picked the bottle back up that more were missing. I dumped the bottle out on the kitchen counter and said get over here and count these pills. Why she wanted to know, you've already counted them enough haven't you? No, I don't think I have because there are more missing. I could tell looking at them. I made her count them. Now there were 23 missing. 23 out of 60 pills that were meant to help me get well, gone in less than 12 hours. I went ballistic. I truly lost it. This is my child. My 33 year old child. She was here to help me. Instead she's taking all of my medicine. I gave her 10 years worth of my frustrations I had held back. I screamed "I'm mad" for 20 minutes straight and beat the walls until my hands are black and blue. I haven't lost my cool at all in over 15 years. Today it's gone.
Remember the movie Pretty Woman and the bathtub scene where Richard Gere talks about spending so much money to learn to say he was angry at his father? Well, it cost me 23 pills today to tell my daughter how angry I was with her. I AM ANGRY. I am so angry and so mad and so hurt and so disappointed and so whatever else you could possibly feel in this situation that I can't even breathe again. And it isn't all over the 23 pills. It's the whole thing. How can you be 33 years old and doing some shit like this. I don't get it. I don't get it. I put her in the car and took her home and told her to stay away from me for a while. I don't know what else to do. I've tried all the ways to help her I know to try. This has been going on for 15 years. I moved out here to bumfuck Alabama to get away from them, her and her brother both, because they sucked the life out of me. I thought maybe if she knew I was really sick that she would rise to the occasion and welcome the opportunity to show some responsibility. I thought she would feel awesome that I trusted her enough to leave the bottle out there and not stuff it down my shirt to keep it away from her. I guess I should have.
So I'm sick you guys. My lungs hurt, my head hurts, my hands hurt really bad but most of all my heart hurts. My heart really really really hurts and I just want to stop crying. I wish I could sit in the middle of a bunch of you and just be hugged. I really don't know what to do. How do you stop this drug crazed madness.