Page 12 of A Winter of Discontent for Henry Milch
The thing I hate about twelve-step meetings is that the whole point is to talk about your problems. Which makes no sense, since the whole point of taking drugs is tonoteven think about your problems. So why is the solution to taking drugs doing the thing that made you take them in the first place? See? It’s completely illogical. Each time I went I felt like I’d have been better off just going to the movies.
Of course, I hadn’texactlystopped taking drugs. I’d stopped taking OxyContin. For one hundred and seventy-eight often difficult days. Edward—hot, sexy, Dr. Edward Stewart—was the one who gave me a prescription for 5 days of Ativan to get me through withdrawals.
Ativan and Valium are basically the same thing. Like the Chevy and Buicks of the pharmaceutical world. Anyway, I supplemented that prescription with some Valium I’d borrowed from Bev’s purse—she was around a lot, so it was easy and irresistible. Apparently, she had epilepsy and had to take it occasionally. Relax. I always made sure to leave enough for her to get to the pharmacy for a refill.
Anyway, after a few weeks, I went back and begged Edward for another prescription. It took a very tense half hour—he’s a stubborn man, but he finally relented. I think it was my pretty eyes that did it. Or maybe because we were in the ER and he had to go save someone’s life. Whichever.
He gave me enough for thirty days. Ninety pills. Ah, Edward. Seriously, it’s hard not to adore a man who gives you drugs. Especially when he said he wouldn’t and then he does anyway. Plus, he’s gorgeous. Tall and auburn-haired, with blue eyes and razor-sharp cheekbones.
And… I left a standing order with Ronnie Sheck, our local drug dealer. He doesn’t get Ativan or Valium often, but people do try to trade random prescription drugs for the more illicit ones. He showed me a shoebox full of pills ranging from Prozac to nitroglycerin. Very colorful.
That visit netted me another two hundred and some pills. Which seemed like an awful lot at the time but now I was nearly out, and I didn’t want to go back to Edward. If he thought I’d stopped taking them, he might be willing to take another try at going out with me. It would be nice to have a sex life again. Especially one I might remember.
Basically, I had to find another doctor. It shouldn’t be that hard. I’d gone to the Internet and looked up what Ativan was used for. Anxiety. I just needed to make an appointment, show up, explain my crippling anxiety in creative detail and get a prescription. And Ididhave anxiety. I was afraid if I stopped taking one drug (Ativan) I’d fall back into the habit of taking another drug (OxyContin). It was completely reasonable to alleviate that anxiety.
I know, I know, I shouldn’t be taking any drugs at all while caring for a baby. But think about it. There have to be millions of women with anxiety and millions of women are taking care of babies. My bet is there’s significant overlap. Drugged womenraise babies all the time and nothing goes wrong. Or at least not a lot. So why can’t I do it?
Which is not to say I wasn’t careful. I didn’t take anything at night, since I didn’t want to sleep through Emerald’s three o’clock feeding. I also didn’t take anything in the morning, since that was usually the busiest time for Emerald. Feeding, changing, bouncing, chewing on random things—the whole deal. So mostly I took an Ativan when we had help in the afternoon. And then in the evenings, since Emerald usually slept from seven to ten. See, I’ve thought this through.
Anyhoo, I decided to go to that Thursday night LGBT NA meeting Opal mentioned. Solely out of curiosity, you understand. And it might be nice to be in a roomful of queer people. Even if they were fucked up.
The meeting was held in the pole barn behind Cheswick Community Church. The intersection of church, drug stuff and gay stuff made me anxious enough to wish I’d taken an Ativan. And then there was the whole accepting of a higher power thing the twelve-steppers wanted you to do. That was enough to make me want an Oxy. Real bad.
I don’t believe in God, so that leaves me short a higher power. They did say I could choose anything as my higher power. They suggested the universe, but I was a little cool on that idea. If God was responsible for a lot of really shitty things, then so was the universe. At that moment, I was leaning toward Cher as my higher power. For one thing she was old and at least tried to do good things and for another “Believe” was kind of spiritual, right?
So there I was at the pole barn behind the church. Again. I arrived late, on purpose. They had fellowship before and after and I really hated that. Seriously, a bunch of addicts standing around drinking coffee, eating cookies, and smoking didn’t domuch for me. I mean, really. Caffeine, sugar and nicotine. Yeah, we’ve given up our addictions. Ha!
I slipped into an empty seat and realized that I knew the guy who was talking. His name was Richard. The last time I saw him was in the emergency room and he was a toxic yellow.
“… it was hard, but I’ve been clean for six months and have finally been allowed onto the transplant list. About twenty percent of people on the list die while waiting, so that six months didn’t help my chances. But I should be grateful. At least now I have a chance.”
The little group applauded. Limply, I joined in. I looked around the group of about twelve. The only other person I knew was Todd Turley—wait, that’s not his name. He works at the Turley HIV clinic. It’s just Todd or Toddy maybe. No idea about his last name. Todd was in his thirties, very tall and thin, with a prominent Adam’s apple. Honestly, he looked like a sexy Icahbod Crane. I know that sounds impossible, but it’s true.
Aside from Todd and Richard there were only two other guys. Both wore flannel and looked like the rednecks I avoided at the grocery store. Maybe they were in the wrong meeting. The women ran the gamut from bull dyke to super femme. Honestly, sometimes I wished people would wear name tags that made things clearer. Todd, gay. Elisa, bisexual. Wanda, lesbian. Bill, lost. That would be so helpful.
Of course, the guy named Bill spoke up and answered my question. He spent the rest of the meeting complaining about how his wife kept claiming his drug use (meth) was the reason he was sleeping with men. It wasn’t and he could prove it. He’d been sober for nearly a year and had had sex with eight different guys (which suggested maybe I shouldn’t avoid the redneck types so carefully). Yes, he missed having sex while he was high, but he’d been having sex with his wife while high and he missed that, too.
Bill’s talk of sex was getting boring, so I snuck looks at Todd. I liked his blond hair, which was much darker underneath, sun bleached even in the depths of winter. His eyes were pale blue. And that Adam’s apple. Was he knobby like that all over?
And then the meeting was done. Thank god. I decided to make a quick exit—right after I snagged a cookie off the refreshment table. And boom, there was Todd.
“Hi, I remember you.”
“Mooch.”
“No—Henry, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you have a sponsor yet?”
“Oh, you know, I’ve only been a few times. Not sure if I’m going to keep coming.”
“What’s your drug of choice?”
“I had a little problem with Oxy but it’s over. Done. In the past. I really don’t need all this.”
“When you’re ready, I’d be willing to be your sponsor.”
