1.8.11
I've eaten four xanax today.
Make that five.
Make that six.
Am I addicted? Hard to say. I probably could be. I got my hands on a script's-worth roughly a week ago and they're just about gone. If I see Chef Zack for refill this week, I'll tend to believe an addiction is setting in. But if I finish the stash and settle back into my depressing reality, then I suppose I'm just on the back end of a binge - a sleepy, harmless binge, it seems.
My pharmaceutical expertise, however, is rather limited. So the possibility that I am irrevocably polluting my psychological and physiological beings is certainly worth consideration.
But I'm far too sedated to worry about that shit.
I'm far too sedated to worry about much of anything, in fact.
Searching for the words to articulate the pleasant emptiness within me is proving difficult. The emptiness itself is all I grasp as being significant - it's the same hollow feeling that's followed me forever.
The drugs do lighten that enormous load of nothingness - they quench my desperate thirst for serotonin. The pills ease my current pain and they fog my troubled anticipations of future pain.
Nothing is solved, though. Suppressed pain is still pain. And in conclusion, it seems I don't have the drugs to sort it out.
I've eaten four xanax today.
Make that five.
Make that six.
Am I addicted? Hard to say. I probably could be. I got my hands on a script's-worth roughly a week ago and they're just about gone. If I see Chef Zack for refill this week, I'll tend to believe an addiction is setting in. But if I finish the stash and settle back into my depressing reality, then I suppose I'm just on the back end of a binge - a sleepy, harmless binge, it seems.
My pharmaceutical expertise, however, is rather limited. So the possibility that I am irrevocably polluting my psychological and physiological beings is certainly worth consideration.
But I'm far too sedated to worry about that shit.
I'm far too sedated to worry about much of anything, in fact.
Searching for the words to articulate the pleasant emptiness within me is proving difficult. The emptiness itself is all I grasp as being significant - it's the same hollow feeling that's followed me forever.
The drugs do lighten that enormous load of nothingness - they quench my desperate thirst for serotonin. The pills ease my current pain and they fog my troubled anticipations of future pain.
Nothing is solved, though. Suppressed pain is still pain. And in conclusion, it seems I don't have the drugs to sort it out.
