The Circus Never Leaves Town

They say that you can't actually remember physical pain, your brain won't let you. That what you're actually remembering when you think of that broken bone, sprained ankle, or deep gash is the experience of pain, not pain itself. Your reaction to it, not the thing itself. That seems like a rather fine and pointed distinction to make, and I can't say if it's actually true or not. I can say that I remember a moment when all pain and worry and care for anything in this world left me, and it was literally the best thing that had ever happened to me.

On day 6 (of 10) of trying to pass a kidney stone the size of a BB through a short tube of muscle fiber as small as the eye of a needle, I was pacing in a small circle in the lobby of the urgent care center, just sweating like a hooker in church. To kill time, I was trying to decide whether Metallica or Vivaldi on my iPod would go best with groaning, shaking, and otherwise stifling my screams into more socially acceptable whimpers. It's Vivaldi, in case you're wondering. 

As an unfortunate veteran of passing any number of stones, I was well aware that 6 days was way too long. 1-2 days is pretty average, and usually one prescription will do the job of covering up the agony of a jagged mass of calculus and ethylene-glycol tumbling and clawing its way through you innards. For the record, I was already done with my third bottle of OxyContin, having been accused of prescription shopping with lessening degrees of subtlety each time I came back with my hand out. No one ever believes me when I say that Vicodin may as well be Flintsones vitamins as far as my body is concerned, so I instill a lot of suspicion when go straight for the Oxy like a junkie snubbing Methadone in favor of the good stuff. Thank God they can do a urinalysis and rule out any junkie chicanery in these cases.

In fairness to my doctor, I have more in common with said junkie than my affect would indicate, and she knows it. I've discussed my addiction issues openly with her from day one. Which also happened to be the day that I discovered I was passing my very first stone, in February of 2002. That's how she came to be my Doctor, in a moment of purest agony. When you get your second scrip for Oxy, the eyebrows go up and the scan of your chart becomes more deliberate. Like Elaine on Seinfeld, I've never actually seen my chart, but I know somewhere in there it must say ADDICT in all caps. Don't trust this motherfucker. So she's cautious about people like me, because she is absolutely the smartest person to ever put their finger in my butt. It's not even close, really. 

My Dentist tried to give me laughing gas once in order to do a rough procedure on my gums. When I said no, she told me that I wouldn't be able to handle it without it. But she checked my chart, presumably saw ADDICT in there somewhere, and then we gave it a white-knuckled whirl anyway. It turns out I actually could handle it, and I took pride in her telling me that my pain-threshold is off the charts. But really, I was just more scared of what would happen if I let myself have the gas than I was of the pain. 

And it turns out I was right to be afraid. Because on Day 6 of the Rock of Gibraltar's migration out of my penis, they gave me a shot of Demerol to hold me over until they could do all kinds of tests to determine why I hadn't passed it on Day 2. And when the sweet tide of that narcotic hit my brain it was literally the best thing that had ever happened to me. Like, seriously, ever. 

Not for the reasons it would be for you. The cessation of that kind of pain—that mothers of three have agreed is worse than childbirth—is one thing. When someone stops stabbing you with a dull knife that is also on fire, it's natural to be relieved. When the miles-long skein of white-hot barbed wire is finally done being pulled through the 12 inches separating your kidney from your pee-pee, it's Ok to be happy about that. But that's not what happens in my brain. Or at least that not all that happens.

On Day 6, I'd been sober over a dozen years, but that inexorable tide of bliss still blew through every single worry, insecurity, injustice, sin, and woe in the entire world like a weapon of mass exultation. When it hit me, it was like it was the only thing that had ever mattered, the only thing that could ever matter. I felt at perfect ease and yet unstoppable. It's kind of like that moment when the buzz of a good scotch or a nice glass of wine hits you at the end of the day, and those first ten minutes you're sober enough to be cogent and tipsy enough to be at your ease. Now combine that with the apex of an orgasm, the afterglow of great sex, and multiply times infinity.

When I'm at that equilibrium, it's like a the most beautiful harmony of confidence, well-being, wholeness, and love. Like nothing matters, but I can do anything. I can feel the world turn under my feet, God is in His Heaven, and everything is perfectly as it ought to be. Why would you ever want to stop feeling that way? Why would you ever take a break from that sense of connection, and being in the groove of some grand purpose? And if a little is good, then more is better, and there's obviously no such thing as too much. Although if there were, it would be just right. Even now, the condition persists, because drugs are not my problem. Reality is my problem, and drugs are the solution. That is addiction.

I've been sober for 18 years, 9 months, 10 days, 17 hours, and 38 minutes, as of this writing, and it still makes me sad sometimes when I think about the utter completion as a person that the shot of Demerol gave me. Like it seriously competes with my Wedding Day as the best moment of my life. And that's my hind-sight perspective, saying from a sober place that it competes with my wedding day. In the moment that euphoric tide washed over me, it wasn't even close. Hands down, the absolute Best. Thing. Ever. That is addiction. 

Two decades of sobriety are no guarantee of anything, because there is no off-switch. No matter how bad the consequences of going back to that world would be for my marriage, my health, and my career, there is still a part of me that has to be restrained from jumping off that cliff. Because falling feels the same as flying, provided you drop from high enough, and every second up to the moment that the terrible impact destroys my life will be a helluva ride. That is addiction. 

George Carlin once said, “Just because the monkey is off your back, doesn't mean the circus has left town.” But that's the thing. The circus never leaves town.