This here is going to be my final post before I'm off to Europe on Monday (I'll keep posting from Europe though). I recently learned about a sad piece of news about the laws in regards to the prohibition of marihuana (the flowers of the hemp plant, Cannabis sativa) in Canada. Now, I'm going to preface this by saying I am not a regular user of marihuana, in spite of the fact that it helps me greatly with my pain, even better than oxycodone does; the reason I don't is because of the other effects, such as blood shot eyes, sedation (drowsiness), obtundation (i.e. a feeling of stupidity), and loss of motor control. Marihuana is fine on weekends, but it is far from useful on weekdays, when concentration, as well as motor skills, are paramount. Because marihuana is a substance of great medical use, it was made legal in Canada; however, just like oxycodone and methamphetamine (also substances of medical use), it is a controlled drug. Also just like oxycodone and methamphetamine, it is sold on street corners in violation of law, although the sale of marihuana is at least ten times more common than either of the two others, or perhaps both combined.
However, marihuana is far more strictly controlled in practice, despite having far less potential for hazardous use (zero marihuana overdosages, ever, in Canada). There is no Canadian pharmaceutical producer of marihuana (although synthetic tetra-hydrocannabinol is sold under the name Marinol for pain). Therefore, the Canadian government grows a small amount of hemp, but trusts the balance to private farmers and hobby growers, who are almost always individuals and not businesses. If a patient finds himself in need of medication, his doctor is to sign a form, and a marihuana card will be issued for one year to the patient. This is almost never (I'm one of the exceptions, as I've got a card) done, even if it is clear that the patient is in urgent need of this vital medication.
After being shot down in flames numerous times, 37-year old Torontonian Matthew Mernagh was arrested for manufacturing, and possession, of marihuana (he was growing seventy plants in his St Catharines flat and suffered from depression, seizures, fibromyalgia, and scoliosis). He, along with 21 other patients, took his charge to the Superior Court of Ontario, and, on 13 April, Donald Taliano J. ruled in his favour, declaring the laws regarding marihuana to be 'constitutionally invalid and of no force and effect'. He gave the Canadian government an ultimatum: either reform the laws or appeal within 90 days, or else marihuana will become, for all intents and purposes, legal. The case was covered in all sorts of media: pro-marihuana advocacy groups (of course!), established broadsheet newspapers, and network television.
Of course, with typical Canadian efficiency (or lack thereof), the government appealed. On 22 June, granted a stay (effectively putting the judgement on hold, as it were) until the appeal. In exchange, the trial is to be put on the fast track---the trial is due in six months (November) as opposed to twelve. Robert Blair J. said, about the stay, 'The practical effect of the decision if the suspension were permitted to expire on July 14 would be to legalize marijuana production in Ontario, if not across Canada, and it will invalidate many ongoing prosecutions involving commercial marijuana productions and possession offences before the appeal. While most people in the courtroom today would applaud such a result, there is much debate about this issue in this society, including about the pros and cons as to whether marijuana is a harmless but valuable therapeutic substance or whether its consumption has harmful effects that may outweigh those considerations in the absence of a controlled regime.'
This is disappointing (although Blair seems quite neutral), but what is even more disappointing is the lack of media coverage. Only a few network television and radio stations covered the story; the rest were advocacy groups. I don't smoke much, but I feel that people who dislike opioids (although I can't figure out why) need to have an alternative.
Why don't you get it, government people?!
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Friday, June 17, 2011
On the road again... soon!
I'll be flying to Europe soon, which is both a good thing and a bad. What I like about flying home is that I am under far less stress---no idiot teachers, no busywork, less stress. I also like the fact that I own, together with my family, several high-performance cars; I like driving, but can't do it when I'm under too much stress. Same for flying a helicopter---I love to fly even more than I like to drive (although it took my family a long time to convince me). I also like the mere fact of being in Europe---I guess my roots are still firmly planted there; I like England more than Canada, and Canada more than the U.S.A. And I like the fact that there's more things to do---hunting, gentlemen's club, snooker, cricket, fencing, actual pubs, etc.
However, the medications used in England leave a lot to be desired; sadly, it is the same for the rest of Europe. In America, if one is having chronic pain, they go to a palliative care (basically, a clinic to make your life easier, not to cure the disease) clinic specialising in pain disorders; these clinics, for the uninformed, do not take medical insurance (only cash is accepted), and the usual fare is an extended release oxycodone tablet called OxyContin, or a hydromorphone preparation called Dilaudid. As pain also comes with anxiety, an anti-anxiety pill called Xanax is also often given. OxyContin and Xanax are given for anything ranging from tooth-ache to scoliosis; bone fractures usually get Dilaudid instead.
In Canada, doctors are a little more careful with giving out pain medications; you won't get Dilaudid for a broken arm or leg unless you're nice (and manipulative) enough. If your doctor thinks the pain has been going on for too long, he will send you to a clinic specialising in palliative pain care, like in America; the difference here is that you can't go to a palliative clinic right away---your doctor decides if you should go or not. Such clinics are, however, a bit more careful than the American ones, as they are generally non-profits owned by hospitals, not companies owned by businessmen. The good thing is that, if you are employed, you will most likely have pills for free, as pharmacies in Canada must take insurance. Just like in America, Dilaudid is occasionally used---more commonly, though, oxycodone (called Percocet, Supeudol, or OxyContin), hydrocodone (called Vicoprofen), or fentanyl patches are used. If you have weak pain, you'll be given codeine (the usual medication for pain unless you ask for something else), morphine (called MS Contin or Roxanol), or tramadol.
By my doctor in Canada, I was given Supeudol, which is pure oxycodone, 20 mgm. a day. Not much, but not too little either. It helps me walk without limping, and it helps me feel good because it has some sort of antidepressant effect, very much like morphine does.
In England, pain clinics don't exist---yes, you read that right. If you are injured, you will be treated by your physician. The usual medication for pain is morphine (called Heroin, with a capital H), which is very weak. Morphine tablets come in 5, 10, 15, 30, and 60 mgm strengths; the strongest, morphine 60, is about as strong as a 20 mgm Supeudol. This is the strongest pain medication in common use in Europe, although the 5 and 10 mgm morphine are considered entirely safe, even for use by children. This is a gigantic pain in the rear; although over-the-counter pain relievers in England and France are far better than American pain relievers (Canadians can get codeine over the counter), the prescription pain relievers are useless in Europe, and hard to get.
This would be okay, except that my doctor doesn't exactly trust me with the Supeudol, as she is afraid that I party with my pills instead of using them for medicinal purposes. So, I get a week's worth, #30 5 mgm pills, at a time. Which is fine, except I'm in Europe. What the hell am I supposed to do?!
However, the medications used in England leave a lot to be desired; sadly, it is the same for the rest of Europe. In America, if one is having chronic pain, they go to a palliative care (basically, a clinic to make your life easier, not to cure the disease) clinic specialising in pain disorders; these clinics, for the uninformed, do not take medical insurance (only cash is accepted), and the usual fare is an extended release oxycodone tablet called OxyContin, or a hydromorphone preparation called Dilaudid. As pain also comes with anxiety, an anti-anxiety pill called Xanax is also often given. OxyContin and Xanax are given for anything ranging from tooth-ache to scoliosis; bone fractures usually get Dilaudid instead.
In Canada, doctors are a little more careful with giving out pain medications; you won't get Dilaudid for a broken arm or leg unless you're nice (and manipulative) enough. If your doctor thinks the pain has been going on for too long, he will send you to a clinic specialising in palliative pain care, like in America; the difference here is that you can't go to a palliative clinic right away---your doctor decides if you should go or not. Such clinics are, however, a bit more careful than the American ones, as they are generally non-profits owned by hospitals, not companies owned by businessmen. The good thing is that, if you are employed, you will most likely have pills for free, as pharmacies in Canada must take insurance. Just like in America, Dilaudid is occasionally used---more commonly, though, oxycodone (called Percocet, Supeudol, or OxyContin), hydrocodone (called Vicoprofen), or fentanyl patches are used. If you have weak pain, you'll be given codeine (the usual medication for pain unless you ask for something else), morphine (called MS Contin or Roxanol), or tramadol.
By my doctor in Canada, I was given Supeudol, which is pure oxycodone, 20 mgm. a day. Not much, but not too little either. It helps me walk without limping, and it helps me feel good because it has some sort of antidepressant effect, very much like morphine does.
In England, pain clinics don't exist---yes, you read that right. If you are injured, you will be treated by your physician. The usual medication for pain is morphine (called Heroin, with a capital H), which is very weak. Morphine tablets come in 5, 10, 15, 30, and 60 mgm strengths; the strongest, morphine 60, is about as strong as a 20 mgm Supeudol. This is the strongest pain medication in common use in Europe, although the 5 and 10 mgm morphine are considered entirely safe, even for use by children. This is a gigantic pain in the rear; although over-the-counter pain relievers in England and France are far better than American pain relievers (Canadians can get codeine over the counter), the prescription pain relievers are useless in Europe, and hard to get.
This would be okay, except that my doctor doesn't exactly trust me with the Supeudol, as she is afraid that I party with my pills instead of using them for medicinal purposes. So, I get a week's worth, #30 5 mgm pills, at a time. Which is fine, except I'm in Europe. What the hell am I supposed to do?!
Thursday, May 19, 2011
My Head
It's been a few months since I started this here blog, and I've blogged on anything and everything ranging from computers to my battle with chronic non-cancer pain to the impressive array (for an 18-year-old) of prescription bottles lined up on my bed head.
What I've intentionally refrained from blogging about, however, are the problems with my head. I don't mean headaches or tooth pain, either. It seems that, historically, ever since the arrival of modern medicine, there has always been much more of an emphasis on the organs below the neckline. Since the arrival of Dr Freud (and if anyone doesn't remember the name somewhere---go sign yourself into the nearest psych ward, pun intended) and the science of psychiatry, mental health care has improved, but those suffering from mental issues are either marginalised by society, or their problems are shrugged off as minor.
If someone has a broken arm, they're given morphine and aspirin and they get their arm put in a splint, which is then signed by their friends and family. If someone has a broken leg, they're given Dilaudid IV and get their leg put in a splint, which is then signed by friends and family.
But God help someone who suffers from constant stress, or can't see any reason for continuing to live and is too chicken to pull the trigger. I know---it's happened to me. And those days are getting more and more frequent. There are the days when everything seems like it's in a black-and-white movie, and then there's the days when I feel like I've gone into bullet time, complete with audible heart thumping and time stopping.
I used to carry around a few (like four to six) oxies for the former, and some Serax, Valium, or Nembutal for the latter. I still carry around the Valium, but I've come to have a love-hate relationship with the oxy. Oxy helps me---it turns the storm clouds to sunshine. It really does. Within five minutes. Try explaining that to my psychiatrist. Oh, yeah, and after the last dose is taken and I sober up, I feel fine. No hangover. Trouble with oxy is (in addition to the addiction, which I haven't developed) you soon start feeling that the happiness, the calm, that it's actually normal.
Which is fine if your life actually feels happy and calm most days. Mine doesn't. I get the black-and-white thing once or twice a week, and it would be tolerable if people simply co-operated and figured that maybe I wasn't feeling my very best, etc. etc. But people, especially at school, tend to think I'm their personal punching bag.
For instance, the vice principal, whom I'll call Sandy Drof on this blog, is widely known to be an alcoholic. She berates me for something I didn't do, or overblows something I did do to almost comical proportion, and even worse---in public. Or a friend of some of my friends. She's a heavy drug abuser (mostly hallucinogens) and abuses alcohol as well. Piercings all over her body, goes to raves, lesbian because it's the new thing nowadays, the works. Not that going to raves and drinking is bad.
I go to socialise with cultured, intelligent people. Most are occasional drug users, some go to raves, about half are model students, and I can discuss practically anything from alcoholism to the nutritional benefits of zinc, so I enjoy this group. What I don't enjoy is, after a discussion on whether Stephen Harper runs the country poorly or well, or a discussion on the benefits of marijuana v. oxycodone for the psychobehavioural aspect, I hear, "SHUT UP, NOBODY CARES." Maybe you're too stupid to care. That doesn't mean everybody else is.
The family isn't the most understanding, either. And I include my mother in this, who deals with the same problems. I've often said, "You know how you feel on your black days?" "Yeah, I know, sweetie." "Well, I'm sorta feeling it. I've just about had it." "Do you want an oxy and a Serax?" (My mum hates pills!) "Yeah, I'll take an oxy and a Serax, but I also need some peace and quiet." She goes on to criticise me about some matter or other, knowing that I feel like crap just sitting up.
My grandmother is worse. She thinks that you can't be stressed as a teen ager. Yes, God damn it, you can. "So don't be stressed." That's like telling a madman to be sane. Or telling the sky to turn green. I got injured in a road accident. That means that I can't operate modes of transportation without either going into bullet time or taking a Serax or a Valium (those work similarly). Serax makes me sleepy. So does Valium. So those aren't options if I haven't had a lot of sleep. So what I do is I take breaks driving or flying. My grandmother now blames me that instead of the fifteen minute drive to the doctors' it took twenty. Big fucking deal. You could have arrived feet first if I didn't take that five-minute break.
What I've intentionally refrained from blogging about, however, are the problems with my head. I don't mean headaches or tooth pain, either. It seems that, historically, ever since the arrival of modern medicine, there has always been much more of an emphasis on the organs below the neckline. Since the arrival of Dr Freud (and if anyone doesn't remember the name somewhere---go sign yourself into the nearest psych ward, pun intended) and the science of psychiatry, mental health care has improved, but those suffering from mental issues are either marginalised by society, or their problems are shrugged off as minor.
If someone has a broken arm, they're given morphine and aspirin and they get their arm put in a splint, which is then signed by their friends and family. If someone has a broken leg, they're given Dilaudid IV and get their leg put in a splint, which is then signed by friends and family.
But God help someone who suffers from constant stress, or can't see any reason for continuing to live and is too chicken to pull the trigger. I know---it's happened to me. And those days are getting more and more frequent. There are the days when everything seems like it's in a black-and-white movie, and then there's the days when I feel like I've gone into bullet time, complete with audible heart thumping and time stopping.
I used to carry around a few (like four to six) oxies for the former, and some Serax, Valium, or Nembutal for the latter. I still carry around the Valium, but I've come to have a love-hate relationship with the oxy. Oxy helps me---it turns the storm clouds to sunshine. It really does. Within five minutes. Try explaining that to my psychiatrist. Oh, yeah, and after the last dose is taken and I sober up, I feel fine. No hangover. Trouble with oxy is (in addition to the addiction, which I haven't developed) you soon start feeling that the happiness, the calm, that it's actually normal.
Which is fine if your life actually feels happy and calm most days. Mine doesn't. I get the black-and-white thing once or twice a week, and it would be tolerable if people simply co-operated and figured that maybe I wasn't feeling my very best, etc. etc. But people, especially at school, tend to think I'm their personal punching bag.
For instance, the vice principal, whom I'll call Sandy Drof on this blog, is widely known to be an alcoholic. She berates me for something I didn't do, or overblows something I did do to almost comical proportion, and even worse---in public. Or a friend of some of my friends. She's a heavy drug abuser (mostly hallucinogens) and abuses alcohol as well. Piercings all over her body, goes to raves, lesbian because it's the new thing nowadays, the works. Not that going to raves and drinking is bad.
I go to socialise with cultured, intelligent people. Most are occasional drug users, some go to raves, about half are model students, and I can discuss practically anything from alcoholism to the nutritional benefits of zinc, so I enjoy this group. What I don't enjoy is, after a discussion on whether Stephen Harper runs the country poorly or well, or a discussion on the benefits of marijuana v. oxycodone for the psychobehavioural aspect, I hear, "SHUT UP, NOBODY CARES." Maybe you're too stupid to care. That doesn't mean everybody else is.
The family isn't the most understanding, either. And I include my mother in this, who deals with the same problems. I've often said, "You know how you feel on your black days?" "Yeah, I know, sweetie." "Well, I'm sorta feeling it. I've just about had it." "Do you want an oxy and a Serax?" (My mum hates pills!) "Yeah, I'll take an oxy and a Serax, but I also need some peace and quiet." She goes on to criticise me about some matter or other, knowing that I feel like crap just sitting up.
My grandmother is worse. She thinks that you can't be stressed as a teen ager. Yes, God damn it, you can. "So don't be stressed." That's like telling a madman to be sane. Or telling the sky to turn green. I got injured in a road accident. That means that I can't operate modes of transportation without either going into bullet time or taking a Serax or a Valium (those work similarly). Serax makes me sleepy. So does Valium. So those aren't options if I haven't had a lot of sleep. So what I do is I take breaks driving or flying. My grandmother now blames me that instead of the fifteen minute drive to the doctors' it took twenty. Big fucking deal. You could have arrived feet first if I didn't take that five-minute break.
Monday, May 16, 2011
On Pain Management
(This was written in March. I now have 300 mg Lyrica pills, which are MASSIVE and damn near impossible to swallow for some people. My GP lowered my oxy yet again---I am now on 15 mg/day. Fuck.)
I'm a chronic pain patient, blah, blah, blah. Because of my GP's irrational fear of opioids, I was given tramadol as a replacement for oxycodone while I'm away in Europe. However, I was unable to pick up my prescription at the chemist's back in Canada before I flew, and so I came to Europe with only Celebrex and Lyrica (Neurontin on steroids). The Lyrica does wonders for nerve pain, but nothing else (plus it makes me incredibly sleepy and doubles as a sedative). The Celebrex is about as useful as a leather jacket on a nudist beach.
Needless to say, I was able to obtain a prescription for tramadol and the British version of Fiorinal (essentially Nembutal and Aspirin) for migraines, and I supplemented this with healthy amounts of over-the-counter kaolin and morphine syrup. However, as I've come to realise, tramadol for chronic pain like this is absolutely ridiculous. For me, it's about half the strength by weight of morphine. The British version of Tramadol, which is called Mabron, comes in 50mg capsules. To get a complete reduction in pain, I've had to take approximately 500-600 mg of tramadol a day. The good news: Tramadol, for an instant-release medication, is incredibly long-lasting. A single dose lasting 12 hours is usual for me. However, it takes 3-4 hours to register an effect.
There are a couple non-obvious downsides to tramadol therapy, though. First of all, with taking huge doses like that, the histamine itch becomes unbearable. So, I take a Zyrtec or two (that's Reactin to you Americans) for the itch. As if that weren't enough, what I consider to be the most important organ in my body becomes completely non-operational. I've asked my doctor here for Viagra and have been flatly turned down. To top it all off, tramadol (like pethidine) becomes seizurogenic at doses above 200mg, and if I weren't taking Lyrica I'd probably be having eppies all over the place. For this reason, although it may be addictive, I got morphine and promptly discontinued the tramadol.
When I come back to Canada, I'm seeing my pain management doctor, and I am already scared. I have a good knowledge of medical terms, and I am afraid that if I use such terms to accurately describe where the pain is and its nature, I would be thought of by a doctor that does not know me as a drug-seeker, which I am not. I am in urgent need of oxycodone---it is the one drug that helps completely at the right dosage. I have found that twenty milligrammes of oxycodone twice a day provides relief from pain and anxiety during my waking hours; however, my doctor has seen fit to prescribe only enough to last me a third of the day --- twenty milligrammes, with a strong possibility that this will be reduced the next time I see her.
I'm a chronic pain patient, blah, blah, blah. Because of my GP's irrational fear of opioids, I was given tramadol as a replacement for oxycodone while I'm away in Europe. However, I was unable to pick up my prescription at the chemist's back in Canada before I flew, and so I came to Europe with only Celebrex and Lyrica (Neurontin on steroids). The Lyrica does wonders for nerve pain, but nothing else (plus it makes me incredibly sleepy and doubles as a sedative). The Celebrex is about as useful as a leather jacket on a nudist beach.
Needless to say, I was able to obtain a prescription for tramadol and the British version of Fiorinal (essentially Nembutal and Aspirin) for migraines, and I supplemented this with healthy amounts of over-the-counter kaolin and morphine syrup. However, as I've come to realise, tramadol for chronic pain like this is absolutely ridiculous. For me, it's about half the strength by weight of morphine. The British version of Tramadol, which is called Mabron, comes in 50mg capsules. To get a complete reduction in pain, I've had to take approximately 500-600 mg of tramadol a day. The good news: Tramadol, for an instant-release medication, is incredibly long-lasting. A single dose lasting 12 hours is usual for me. However, it takes 3-4 hours to register an effect.
There are a couple non-obvious downsides to tramadol therapy, though. First of all, with taking huge doses like that, the histamine itch becomes unbearable. So, I take a Zyrtec or two (that's Reactin to you Americans) for the itch. As if that weren't enough, what I consider to be the most important organ in my body becomes completely non-operational. I've asked my doctor here for Viagra and have been flatly turned down. To top it all off, tramadol (like pethidine) becomes seizurogenic at doses above 200mg, and if I weren't taking Lyrica I'd probably be having eppies all over the place. For this reason, although it may be addictive, I got morphine and promptly discontinued the tramadol.
When I come back to Canada, I'm seeing my pain management doctor, and I am already scared. I have a good knowledge of medical terms, and I am afraid that if I use such terms to accurately describe where the pain is and its nature, I would be thought of by a doctor that does not know me as a drug-seeker, which I am not. I am in urgent need of oxycodone---it is the one drug that helps completely at the right dosage. I have found that twenty milligrammes of oxycodone twice a day provides relief from pain and anxiety during my waking hours; however, my doctor has seen fit to prescribe only enough to last me a third of the day --- twenty milligrammes, with a strong possibility that this will be reduced the next time I see her.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Suicide Note
If I were to write a suicide note, which seems more and more likely as the days go on, I'd write something like this.
My dear friends and family:
My sincere thanks go out to you for attempting to put some form of joy into my life; I have enjoyed my stay on this planet very much. My life has been packed with enriching activities: swimming, watching the latest blockbusters at the cinema, drinking at the bar. Therefore, I put no blame on you for causing me to go on this, my last journey. However, I now feel that my life has no meaning or purpose whatever, and it is time for me to go to the land from which nobody returns, and everyone goes alone, no matter how close his fellow men walk behind him. Why was I born? What is the purpose of humanity on the planet? Where are we headed in this crap-shoot called life? I used to know, with high confidence, the answer to all of these questions; now, I fear I have forgotten them. Every morning, I try my damnedest to get up out of bed, and I have failed miserably on multiple occasions. School, nowadays, seems to be hardly an excuse. Why should I burden my friends---if I can call them that---with my presence? Same goes for my family. Having spent most of the past year pondering this question, I find that the answer is decidedly no. I had once been in love with the very idea of life---I felt that it seemed to have had an almost magical quality to it. Boy, was I an idealistic, naive fool. I have now seen the reality of life, and the truth is that it's a game with no rules and no way to win; a dead-end job with no promotion in sight and no wages either; a race with no finish line and no medals given out---a rat race, in other words. In the words of the dolphins of The Hitch-Hiker's Guide To The Galaxy, "So long, so long, and thanks for all the fish!"
My sincere thanks, again, and see you in a few years.
My dear friends and family:
My sincere thanks go out to you for attempting to put some form of joy into my life; I have enjoyed my stay on this planet very much. My life has been packed with enriching activities: swimming, watching the latest blockbusters at the cinema, drinking at the bar. Therefore, I put no blame on you for causing me to go on this, my last journey. However, I now feel that my life has no meaning or purpose whatever, and it is time for me to go to the land from which nobody returns, and everyone goes alone, no matter how close his fellow men walk behind him. Why was I born? What is the purpose of humanity on the planet? Where are we headed in this crap-shoot called life? I used to know, with high confidence, the answer to all of these questions; now, I fear I have forgotten them. Every morning, I try my damnedest to get up out of bed, and I have failed miserably on multiple occasions. School, nowadays, seems to be hardly an excuse. Why should I burden my friends---if I can call them that---with my presence? Same goes for my family. Having spent most of the past year pondering this question, I find that the answer is decidedly no. I had once been in love with the very idea of life---I felt that it seemed to have had an almost magical quality to it. Boy, was I an idealistic, naive fool. I have now seen the reality of life, and the truth is that it's a game with no rules and no way to win; a dead-end job with no promotion in sight and no wages either; a race with no finish line and no medals given out---a rat race, in other words. In the words of the dolphins of The Hitch-Hiker's Guide To The Galaxy, "So long, so long, and thanks for all the fish!"
My sincere thanks, again, and see you in a few years.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Kick 'em when they're down...
A couple days ago, I was at school, and went out for a smoke in-between classes. This doesn't make me too late, and it allows me three minutes to de-stress. I slip and fall on the mud, caking my whole side with earth. After enduring ten or so people mocking me, I go to the office and ask for the key to the handicap bathroom so that I can clean myself up in a civilised manner. Of course, as my shitty luck would have it, the only person in the office is the vice principal, whom I will call Chevrolet (or Mrs C for short); she happens to be an alcoholic and also one of the most disagreeable women I know.
She refuses---of course. I go to the regular washroom---fortunately, nobody's there, and I can wash up without letting my dignity run out the door. No sooner do I get out than I get told by a teacher that Mrs C is looking for me. Instantly, of course, I get stiff as a board. I get into her office, and she accuses me of smoking marijuana. Of course, I reply that it was a cigarette. I'm no stoner---pillhead yes, stoner no. I show her my pack of Camel to prove it---she says that of course I wouldn't have weed on me, because I just smoked it.
She seems to ever-so-slowly cotton on to the fact that the only thing I reek of is Turkish tobacco. Then, to add insult to injury, she swipes my smokes saying that they're illegal for me to own as I'm under 19, and she'd call the cops on whoever sold them to me. Why would she seize them now, and not the million other times she caught me smoking? Of course, the rest of the day, I have to buy fags for $1 apiece to feel anything close to relaxed.
The problem really wasn't even losing my ciggies, it was the verbal abuse that I was forced to listen to. I was accused completely unfairly. It's one thing when you have a witness or two, or when someone obviously stinks of cannabis. Also, *right after* I hurt myself and lose most of my dignity? This is why I can't stand life.
I give up. Seems like this sort of thing happens every day. No wonder I'm losing my stamina and have to take four or five different pills every day just to keep myself halfway functioning.
She refuses---of course. I go to the regular washroom---fortunately, nobody's there, and I can wash up without letting my dignity run out the door. No sooner do I get out than I get told by a teacher that Mrs C is looking for me. Instantly, of course, I get stiff as a board. I get into her office, and she accuses me of smoking marijuana. Of course, I reply that it was a cigarette. I'm no stoner---pillhead yes, stoner no. I show her my pack of Camel to prove it---she says that of course I wouldn't have weed on me, because I just smoked it.
She seems to ever-so-slowly cotton on to the fact that the only thing I reek of is Turkish tobacco. Then, to add insult to injury, she swipes my smokes saying that they're illegal for me to own as I'm under 19, and she'd call the cops on whoever sold them to me. Why would she seize them now, and not the million other times she caught me smoking? Of course, the rest of the day, I have to buy fags for $1 apiece to feel anything close to relaxed.
The problem really wasn't even losing my ciggies, it was the verbal abuse that I was forced to listen to. I was accused completely unfairly. It's one thing when you have a witness or two, or when someone obviously stinks of cannabis. Also, *right after* I hurt myself and lose most of my dignity? This is why I can't stand life.
I give up. Seems like this sort of thing happens every day. No wonder I'm losing my stamina and have to take four or five different pills every day just to keep myself halfway functioning.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
On Lyrica
A long time ago, I was given pregabaline for pain relating to my accident. It's an unscheduled, unclassed drug in Canada (and the UK) due to its new-ness, but I'm sure it'll hop to Class B or Class C very soon. Pregabaline isn't an opioid; it doesn't even work on what most people would call "pain". It works on tingling, burning, etc., which are forms of "pain" caused by damaged nerves. Because of my chronic tingling "pain", I was given 300 mg of pregabaline to take at night; I now take 600 mg, half in the morning, half at night.
However, pregabaline has some... ahem... interesting side effects. It pins your eyes, even worse than oxy does. In fact, people first thought I was taking ungodly amounts of oxy when I began taking the pregabaline in the morning. I mean, I was, but the pinned eyes and the walk... Oh, God, the walk. After you overcome the drowsiness, which is a big factor for me, you walk like you're on methaqualone. Sorta like the stumble of the alcoholic, with a bit of the Largactil shuffle (if you don't know what that is, visit your nearest psych ward and you'll see it) mixed in. If you've been to a 70's disco, you've seen the Quaalude walk (most probably on high-heeled shoes). Well, learning to walk on pregabaline is no different.
Oh, yeah, and it KILLS your anxiety. I thought Valium worked. Now I see that Valium is just the beer to Lyrica's champagne. When I wake up in the morning, I take my 300 mg horse pill (the pills are fucking huge, like tetracycline) of pregabaline, and I feel good within an hour. I've heard of Lyrica abuse... didn't take it seriously till I had the 300 mg pills.
I mentioned this to a particular professor of psychiatry at the U of T, a Dr M., who said, and I paraphrase, "Oh, yeah, they do that. We use them instead of benzos [benzos are Valium, Librium, Klonopin, and Xanax], because, well, you're smart, you know what they do."
Well done, Dr M. I no longer need SSRI's from my psychiatrist, Dr R., who's fresh out of psycho school and actually told me to take the pregabaline out of my diet. Hayull no. I refuse to take pills that make my dick not work and my head hazy... which is what Prozac does. And, I quote, there's a chance that upon withdrawal of Prozac, certain side effects will persist long-term. Plus, the SSRI's only work long-term; you can't take one Prozac when you're feeling terrible, and no pills the rest of the week.
Dr R. actually recommended I see Dr M., who "had more experience". At the time, I figured, another shrink, same difference, I have experience with Dr R., so I said no. Now I know he's the professor of psychiatry, plus he practices at the pain centre, and at the hospital... oh, yeah, and he's my fellow countryman. I asked for a referral immediately. Too bad when he sees my psycho file he's going to recoil in horror.
"Poly drug abuser". Blow me. When I feel stressed out, I take a Valium. When I get hurt, I take an OxyContin. When I feel burning in my legs so bad I can't stand up, I take a Lyrica. That's not poly drug abuse. That's normal human behaviour.
However, pregabaline has some... ahem... interesting side effects. It pins your eyes, even worse than oxy does. In fact, people first thought I was taking ungodly amounts of oxy when I began taking the pregabaline in the morning. I mean, I was, but the pinned eyes and the walk... Oh, God, the walk. After you overcome the drowsiness, which is a big factor for me, you walk like you're on methaqualone. Sorta like the stumble of the alcoholic, with a bit of the Largactil shuffle (if you don't know what that is, visit your nearest psych ward and you'll see it) mixed in. If you've been to a 70's disco, you've seen the Quaalude walk (most probably on high-heeled shoes). Well, learning to walk on pregabaline is no different.
Oh, yeah, and it KILLS your anxiety. I thought Valium worked. Now I see that Valium is just the beer to Lyrica's champagne. When I wake up in the morning, I take my 300 mg horse pill (the pills are fucking huge, like tetracycline) of pregabaline, and I feel good within an hour. I've heard of Lyrica abuse... didn't take it seriously till I had the 300 mg pills.
I mentioned this to a particular professor of psychiatry at the U of T, a Dr M., who said, and I paraphrase, "Oh, yeah, they do that. We use them instead of benzos [benzos are Valium, Librium, Klonopin, and Xanax], because, well, you're smart, you know what they do."
Well done, Dr M. I no longer need SSRI's from my psychiatrist, Dr R., who's fresh out of psycho school and actually told me to take the pregabaline out of my diet. Hayull no. I refuse to take pills that make my dick not work and my head hazy... which is what Prozac does. And, I quote, there's a chance that upon withdrawal of Prozac, certain side effects will persist long-term. Plus, the SSRI's only work long-term; you can't take one Prozac when you're feeling terrible, and no pills the rest of the week.
Dr R. actually recommended I see Dr M., who "had more experience". At the time, I figured, another shrink, same difference, I have experience with Dr R., so I said no. Now I know he's the professor of psychiatry, plus he practices at the pain centre, and at the hospital... oh, yeah, and he's my fellow countryman. I asked for a referral immediately. Too bad when he sees my psycho file he's going to recoil in horror.
"Poly drug abuser". Blow me. When I feel stressed out, I take a Valium. When I get hurt, I take an OxyContin. When I feel burning in my legs so bad I can't stand up, I take a Lyrica. That's not poly drug abuse. That's normal human behaviour.
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