Habits that never die.
[mood| 
pensive]
“You don’t think you’ve changed in the last few years?”
“Well, of, of course I have. I’ve… I’ve gotten older. My hair’s gotten thinner. Sometimes I’m bored, sometimes I’m lonely, sometimes I wonder what it all means.”
“No, I was there! You are not just a regular guy who’s getting older, you’ve changed! You’re miserable, and you’re afraid to face yourself--”
“Of course I’ve changed!”
“And everything’s the leg? Nothing’s the pills? They haven’t done a thing to you?”
“They let me do my job, and they take away my pain.”
+
That conversation between Wilson and myself has stuck with me for a long time. I won’t readily admit a lot of things, simply because it’s none of your business. What works for me works and that’s all you need to know.
I will say this, though: The pills have changed me. Wilson was right -- it’s not just about the leg. It’s the damn pills, too. They control me as much as they control my pain.
I used to have control over my own life. I used to have so much control over the things I could do -- the choice to go for a run, the choice to go up and down a flight of stairs, the choice to ride a pushbike, the choice to play golf, the choice to have an active lifestyle. Even the choice to sleep on my right in bed -- I haven’t slept on my right in ten years. Do you have any idea how much I miss that?
I thought I had control over my own infarction. Just like I had a choice to have an active lifestyle, I had a choice for what I wanted done to deal with the four-day blockage in my lateral circumflex femoral artery. I chose to have the artery reopened instead of having my leg amputated, like Cuddy kept on suggesting to me. I chose to give myself a chance; that in the slight off-chance that I’d survive, my leg would still be intact and I might’ve had a chance to restore the life I once had, once I made a complete recovery.
But that choice I made was taken away from me. And with that came the lack of control over my life, to the point where I’ve been left in chronic pain and the only way I can control that is through painkillers. And there are some days where those pills don’t take away an ounce of the pain. There are some days the pain is so bad that I want to die. There are some days I am so frustrated with the life I lead that I wish I’d gone with Cuddy’s suggestion and lopped the leg off. Because I’d be minus a leg but I’d also be minus the pain. With how things turned out, I might as well have lost my leg altogether, because it’s useless now.
And so I’m left with the pills. The only thing that brings about any potential normality to my life. The pills, they help me focus. They help me manage. That’s all I really have. I could have physiotherapy -- god knows, Cuddy and Wilson have both been on my case about it enough times in the past -- but physiotherapy takes work and it takes pain, and I don’t want pain. I want what works, and I want it to work fast. Vicodin works. It works fast, too. Therefore, it’s all I have. It’s a habit, one that I can’t kick; one that I won’t kick. But it’s one that I wish I could kick. I wish I could have control over my own life again.
Am I addicted? Yes. I’m addicted to painkillers. Am I proud of it? No. Of course I’m not proud of it. Am I going to do something about it? No. I’m not.
That’s the choice I’ve made.
Muse: Dr. Gregory House
Fandom: House, M.D.
Words: 667
Note: Conversation in italics and picture from the episode Detox.
Comments welcome.
pensive]
“You don’t think you’ve changed in the last few years?”
“Well, of, of course I have. I’ve… I’ve gotten older. My hair’s gotten thinner. Sometimes I’m bored, sometimes I’m lonely, sometimes I wonder what it all means.”
“No, I was there! You are not just a regular guy who’s getting older, you’ve changed! You’re miserable, and you’re afraid to face yourself--”
“Of course I’ve changed!”
“And everything’s the leg? Nothing’s the pills? They haven’t done a thing to you?”
“They let me do my job, and they take away my pain.”
+
That conversation between Wilson and myself has stuck with me for a long time. I won’t readily admit a lot of things, simply because it’s none of your business. What works for me works and that’s all you need to know.
I will say this, though: The pills have changed me. Wilson was right -- it’s not just about the leg. It’s the damn pills, too. They control me as much as they control my pain.
I used to have control over my own life. I used to have so much control over the things I could do -- the choice to go for a run, the choice to go up and down a flight of stairs, the choice to ride a pushbike, the choice to play golf, the choice to have an active lifestyle. Even the choice to sleep on my right in bed -- I haven’t slept on my right in ten years. Do you have any idea how much I miss that?
I thought I had control over my own infarction. Just like I had a choice to have an active lifestyle, I had a choice for what I wanted done to deal with the four-day blockage in my lateral circumflex femoral artery. I chose to have the artery reopened instead of having my leg amputated, like Cuddy kept on suggesting to me. I chose to give myself a chance; that in the slight off-chance that I’d survive, my leg would still be intact and I might’ve had a chance to restore the life I once had, once I made a complete recovery.
But that choice I made was taken away from me. And with that came the lack of control over my life, to the point where I’ve been left in chronic pain and the only way I can control that is through painkillers. And there are some days where those pills don’t take away an ounce of the pain. There are some days the pain is so bad that I want to die. There are some days I am so frustrated with the life I lead that I wish I’d gone with Cuddy’s suggestion and lopped the leg off. Because I’d be minus a leg but I’d also be minus the pain. With how things turned out, I might as well have lost my leg altogether, because it’s useless now.
And so I’m left with the pills. The only thing that brings about any potential normality to my life. The pills, they help me focus. They help me manage. That’s all I really have. I could have physiotherapy -- god knows, Cuddy and Wilson have both been on my case about it enough times in the past -- but physiotherapy takes work and it takes pain, and I don’t want pain. I want what works, and I want it to work fast. Vicodin works. It works fast, too. Therefore, it’s all I have. It’s a habit, one that I can’t kick; one that I won’t kick. But it’s one that I wish I could kick. I wish I could have control over my own life again.
Am I addicted? Yes. I’m addicted to painkillers. Am I proud of it? No. Of course I’m not proud of it. Am I going to do something about it? No. I’m not.
That’s the choice I’ve made.
Muse: Dr. Gregory House
Fandom: House, M.D.
Words: 667
Note: Conversation in italics and picture from the episode Detox.
Comments welcome.