the deadliest game
I'm a drug addict.
And I hate myself for it.
Everyone in my life that I actually give a damn deserves better than this from me. At this rate, I'm looking at organ failure before my kid graduates college. And Kyle is right. He shouldn't have to be the one to explain to my son or daughter that the reason their father is dead is that I wasn't strong enough to break this cycle and quit. That I didn't think it was worth it to quit.
I won't subject my kid to that. How much of a loser does that make me, if I die because I let the drugs get to me? I'm a good doctor. I'm a damn good doctor. A really damn good doctor.
If the drugs take me, what does that say about the legacy I'll leave behind? The great doctor House couldn't even fix himself, in the end. Lost to disease. Lost to the one thing he spent his whole life and career fighting. Lost to something that shouldn't have ever happened in the fucking first place.
I should be dead right now. I would say six feet under and well decomposed, but I want to be cremated.
But I'm not. I'm here. Living. Breathing. Raising hell on this planet like there's no tomorrow. Sometimes I wonder if there is a tomorrow. We could all live another fifty years, or get hit by a bus next Wednesday. We can't control death. I'm a doctor, and I sure as hell can't. I can just do my best to fight it off.
I can't cheat death. Not even myself. I don't want to die early. I don't want to subject my son or daughter to a life without a father.
I grew up without a father, practically. I won't make my child go through that. It's not fair, and more importantly, it's not right.
And I promised Brittany that I would do the right thing. The right thing in this case would be to detox. But what does that leave me with? Pain. And I don't know about you, but I don't like pain. My only options, really, would be to give up walking entirely and be in a wheelchair. Or amputate.
I don't think so.
Don't get me wrong. I don't like the fact that I'm an addict. I really don't. You think I like having to be dependent on something so insignificant? They're a god damn CHEMICAL, and I can't fight the urge to down them. I'm physically and psychologically dependent on painkillers. I hate myself for it.
But I'm too terrified to think of how hard it would be to quit. I tried once before. I would have kept going past the week Cuddy and I had agreed on, but it was too hard. It hurt too much. I would've killed myself in the process.
I just don't know what to do.
And I hate myself for it.
Everyone in my life that I actually give a damn deserves better than this from me. At this rate, I'm looking at organ failure before my kid graduates college. And Kyle is right. He shouldn't have to be the one to explain to my son or daughter that the reason their father is dead is that I wasn't strong enough to break this cycle and quit. That I didn't think it was worth it to quit.
I won't subject my kid to that. How much of a loser does that make me, if I die because I let the drugs get to me? I'm a good doctor. I'm a damn good doctor. A really damn good doctor.
If the drugs take me, what does that say about the legacy I'll leave behind? The great doctor House couldn't even fix himself, in the end. Lost to disease. Lost to the one thing he spent his whole life and career fighting. Lost to something that shouldn't have ever happened in the fucking first place.
I should be dead right now. I would say six feet under and well decomposed, but I want to be cremated.
But I'm not. I'm here. Living. Breathing. Raising hell on this planet like there's no tomorrow. Sometimes I wonder if there is a tomorrow. We could all live another fifty years, or get hit by a bus next Wednesday. We can't control death. I'm a doctor, and I sure as hell can't. I can just do my best to fight it off.
I can't cheat death. Not even myself. I don't want to die early. I don't want to subject my son or daughter to a life without a father.
I grew up without a father, practically. I won't make my child go through that. It's not fair, and more importantly, it's not right.
And I promised Brittany that I would do the right thing. The right thing in this case would be to detox. But what does that leave me with? Pain. And I don't know about you, but I don't like pain. My only options, really, would be to give up walking entirely and be in a wheelchair. Or amputate.
I don't think so.
Don't get me wrong. I don't like the fact that I'm an addict. I really don't. You think I like having to be dependent on something so insignificant? They're a god damn CHEMICAL, and I can't fight the urge to down them. I'm physically and psychologically dependent on painkillers. I hate myself for it.
But I'm too terrified to think of how hard it would be to quit. I tried once before. I would have kept going past the week Cuddy and I had agreed on, but it was too hard. It hurt too much. I would've killed myself in the process.
I just don't know what to do.