Opiate withdrawals might be one of the worst experiences that a human mind and body can endure. Picture yourself…
You are sitting at home. Alone. On…let’s say…a January day. You have run out of pills. You don’t know what to expect. Your body suddenly gets a rush of warmth. It’s almost a nice feeling at first, considering the outside conditions. But then it turns to extreme heat. I’m talking Africa times Las Vegas in July type of heat. You start to perspire. It’s a light sweat at first. Then you’re sweating profusely. You are now literally dripping with sweat…out of every pore. Pores that you didn’t even know existed are now leaking. Attractive. It gets to the point where you think that you are going to literally melt from the inside out. You get a bright idea…one of many. You remove some clothing. You guzzle some refreshing ice water out of your bubbler. Nothing. You sweat even more. The heat builds up. You then decide to remove all of your clothing, which is now soaked from all of the sweat. Nothing. You are still hot as balls. You turn on an air conditioner (or central air when applicable)…in January. Sharp. Nope…you’re still melting away. Now you’re fresh out of ideas so you make a last ditch effort at cooling off. You jump in the shower. A cold shower. Ten minutes of that heat is almost unbearable, so you’ve resorted to taking an ice cold shower in January. Then the cold shower starts to work…but does it?
Now all of a sudden your body is consumed with chills. It’s fucking freezing. You’re covered in goosebumps. Your muscles are flexed. You’re almost curled up in a ball…in the shower mind you. Your jaw is chattering. It’s that cold. You get out of the shower and dry off. You sprint to the air conditioner (or central air if applicable) and immediately shut it off. Nothing is working…still freezing your ass off. I’m talking Boston in February…while outside at night naked type of cold. So, another bright idea hits you. You turn the heat up…all the way up. You begin to layer up with clothing again. Thermals. Winter hat. Sweats. Shit…even gloves. You are now dressed for a day in Alaska. Fuck it, right? It beats being cold. Only nothing is working…the chills remain…until…
That’s it, nice and warm all of a sudden. Ahhhh. It must have been the gloves…what a move. But wait, it’s getting hot again. Real hot. The hot flashes are back. This time it’s even worse. Much more intense heat. Maybe that glove and hat combo indoors wasn’t such a bright idea after all. The sweats are back…and soon will be the chills. Hot to cold. Hot to cold. Hot to cold. Hot to cold. Every ten minutes or so. Just long enough for you to get dressed, then undressed, and repeat. Long enough to drive you fucking crazy. The laundry piles up. The madness begins…
The hot and cold spells don’t stop…they only get worse. In the midst of all that nonsense, you start to feel completely weak all over. Your muscles…better yet…your whole body is aching. Fatigue. You’re too weak to even stand up. It’s too hot to try and lie down…wouldn’t want to sweat on those new sheets. While trying to maintain composure, the chills are back, so you need to curl up. Every bone in your entire body begins to ache…all at once. Every single muscle fiber feels pain. Not sharp pain, but aching pain. It feels like the day after you just worked out with weights for the very first time. It’s not pleasant by any means. Too weak to move, yet hot and cold kind of throws a wrench into those plans. The pains are constant. It doesn’t cycle like the hot and cold. It’s all day…so get used to it. It’s not enough pain for tears. It’s just enough to make you feel like death.
Speaking of death, while all of this is going on you begin to feel sick. Like nauseous-type of sick. Enough so that you have to muster up some energy to make it to the bathroom to vomit. Better hurry, the bathroom is downstairs. You make it…barely…and begin to throw up…which is weird because you haven’t eaten a thing. This also causes you great pain. I guess a lot more muscles than you thought are used when you throw up. Your abdominal muscles feel like someone ran over them in an armored truck…twice. The sweat is blinding your eyes as you hover over the almighty toilet bowl. The chills become so bad that you feel like turning on the fucking oven and taking up residence inside for the day. Throwing up didn’t make you feel the least bit better. Only worse. Muscles and bones that didn’t hurt as bad before now throb in pain. This isn’t alcohol poisoning or bad sushi…this is opiate withdrawal…and you’ve only just begun.
You’re probably beginning to question when this madness is going to end. Or better yet…if there is a God…why is he doing this to you. Well this isn’t ending anytime soon. Sorry.
You have been going through hell all fucking day–non stop. You haven’t eaten. You tried but it got thrown right up. You feel drained. You have nothing left to give. All your hopes, dreams, ambitions are in the toilet bowl. Seeing that it’s now nighttime, your usual time for bed, you decide to make an attempt at sleeping. You fail miserably. Even though you’re clearly tired, there will be no sleeping. Your legs are sore as shit. Yet they’re moving all over the place. It’s as if no position on that bed of yours is comfortable enough. That’s called restless leg syndrome. Get used to it. Maybe it’s the small pool of sweat you’re laying in that’s prohibiting you from sleeping. Maybe it’s the fact you feel like vomiting every time you turn to a new side. It might be. But probably not. Insomnia. No pills means no sleep. This begins to drive you crazy. So hopefully if you are fortunate enough, you have a working television for your entertainment seeing as it’s late and you can’t sleep. You turn on the TV. Once again your fucked. It’s all infomercials. There’s nothing on at 4AM. Get used to it.
The sun finally comes up. A new day. You barely notice. The symptoms have gotten so bad you’re contemplating suicide. You haven’t slept a wink. You haven’t eaten. You look and feel like absolute shit. That’s when the depression starts to kick in hard body. You begin to feel helpless. Alone. Lazy. You even might start hallucinating. Not fun. You don’t even have the energy to get out of that bed to switch the AC back on because the chills are over and it’s back to sweat city. If given the choice you would choose to die. Right then and there. This has only been 24 hours…not even close to feeling better. It’s only going to get worse…fuck.
Now I want you to picture going through what I just described…over and over…for let’s say…fourteen days. As each day passes, the symptoms get worse…more intense…brutal even. Hot flashes. Cold chills. Aches. Pains. Insomnia. Nausea. Depression. Fatigue. Hallucinations…over and over. Picture the worst flu that you’ve ever had. Now times that by a thousand. That was a day at the beach compared to opiate withdrawals. Yeah…it’s that bad.
I realize that there are numerous people out there that have never had to experience withdrawals from oxys, or any opiates for that matter. Consider yourselves lucky. I won’t sugarcoat it by any means…it’s fucking brutal. The whole experience really takes a toll on the body, especially the mind. Sure, the physical aspect sucks pretty bad, don’t get me wrong. But what your mind goes through during and after coming off opiates is the real bitch. Depression, hallucinations, insomnia, and the overall morbid feeling…all which can last several months after you stop using…are nothing compared to the cravings you get. It’s almost like a hunger sensation, but it’s not for food. It’s the little thought in your head of knowing that just one little pill can and will make everything all better again. It’s fucking torture. Day in and day out….and it doesn’t go away…ever. Even to this day I still get cravings. Not very often. Not like I used to…but they’re still there…and I haven’t used a drug in years. Over time they obviously get more and more faint, which makes it much easier to abstain. But at first…oh man it’s bad. It’s the biggest reason why people end up relapsing within the first few days, or even hours, after withdrawals begin. Shit is really no joke. Once the pills grab a hold of your balls in that vice grip, they usually don’t let go very easily.
Luckily for yours truly, I happen to be a genius. After suffering one too many times from withdrawals by trying to go cold turkey, I realized that wasn’t happening. I went to rehab. I didn’t really have to suffer too badly with symptoms. I was put on a certain combination of medications that made withdrawals from opiates bearable. Not completely absent by any means…but definitely bearable…that is until the morning after I checked out of there. Then it wasn’t so pleasant. I’ll get to that later…
I spent the majority of my time in rehab sleeping, especially at first. Well actually it was a drug induced coma…same difference. I guess the meds I was on really did the trick. I must have slept some 20 hours a day at first while my body adjusted to the opiates leaving my system. I wasn’t complaining by any means. I even slept through the wildebeest’s nightly symphony of bodily functions like it was nothing. The only time I woke up was for food, bathroom, or more meds. I was a walking zombie for the first few days no doubt. I can only imagine how handsome I must have looked. I’m sure it wasn’t pretty. Maybe it was good that there were no females after all…
Once my body finally got used to the new medication, I was awake much more. During that time, when I wasn’t in mandatory NA meetings or group therapy, there really weren’t many recreational options or things to do. For the most part, I stayed in my room and occupied my time by reading…which I didn’t mind one bit because I love to read. Occasionally I would come out of my chambers and shoot the shit or play cards with my boy Anthony and the other guys, but even that gets old. Remember, I was detoxing. I still had symptoms. They weren’t completely gone, so I wasn’t really my usual personable self. I just wanted to be alone while I went through it. Being around a bunch of people while having mild hot/cold flashes and whatnot didn’t really appeal to me…
Every now and again I would make some phone calls to the outside world. Probably not as much as I should’ve but oh well, I was detoxing. I mostly called my mother Laura, some family members, a few friends, and obviously the woman that I had been seeing at the time…considering I was still technically engaged and all. However, I’m not getting into that right now…maybe down the line. The calls were mostly pleasant in nature but I know how worried everyone was about me….I could tell in their tones. Shit, to tell you the truth I was more worried about myself than they were. Not so much about staying off of drugs really. I know I definitely didn’t want to have to end up in a shit hole rehab ever again. I was more worried about how I was living my life on the whole and how in the hell I was going to change. The whole being a drug dealer, all of the partying, not to mention the alleged upcoming wedding that I still had to finish planning…really ate at me while I was stuck in there. It wasn’t sitting too well with me at all. There were so many questions I had about my future. So many uncertainties…and all of this while coming off of drugs…well…it wasn’t fun…not one bit.
Rehab really opened my eyes to a lot of shit. I saw a whole side of the aftermath of drug abuse that I had never really been exposed to prior. I saw just how badly the road of drug addiction can and will end. I wanted absolutely no part of it. I met all sorts of different walks of life…with one common characteristic…they were all drug addicts. Homeless guys, wildebeest looking creatures, young kids, older guys, guys who were just in rehab for a place to stay and some free food…all with a story of how they let addiction get too far. Some guys were once just like me, but now they had nothing and no one left. All because of drugs. Their lives completely fucked up–beyond fixing. All of their bridges were burned and now they were left to live under a bridge. Waiting on the next scheme to get high, trying to survive. All they had left in life was a massive drug dependency and the clothes on their backs. Well one of them had my pants as well, so he’s clearly doing better than the rest. I knew for certain I didn’t want to end up like that. It was almost as if I got a glimpse of the future if I stayed down the path I was on…you know…using drugs, partying, selling drugs, all the lies, the bullshit I was putting everyone through. That future wasn’t for me. Truth be told, it scared the fucking shit out of me…
The remainder of my stay at rehab was uneventful in terms of anything interesting happening. I successfully finished the program and I was no longer physically dependent on oxycodone. That made me happy. But yet I was still scared at the same time. I now had to go back into the real world without the drug I had been relying on for the past two years or so. I hoped for the best. All in all I look at my stay in rehab as an overall success, considering I never had to go back again. I think I did just fine. I guess it’s pretty safe to say that aside from being a victim of grand pants larceny, rehab was probably the best decision I’ve ever made…
However…when I walked out of there on that warm September evening I had more questions than I did answers…and that’s when the madness began…to be continued…..
UPDATE: The search still continues for my missing pants; the culprit is still at large…
mattymcdonald 
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