#189
I was telling her what it feels like to come down off the drugs at the end of the afternoon, and the crash that leaves my mind feeling open and alive, but my body feeling exhausted, and how that conflict plays out in my day and how it was like rubber bands that bend and stretch and then give up and snap.
Her: I’m not sure I can connect.
It had only been a few weeks, but the milligrams and the tiny white pills had become part of my daily routine to the point where I set a reminder to top up throughout the day, after the initial rocket launch at breakfast.
Her: How’s the caffeine interaction?
Me: I still drink too much coffee.
The dog has noticed, maybe because I am less distracted, which not only means by random noises or smells, but by him as well. I feel like he might be a bit resentful.
Me: I feel like the dog might resent me now.
Her: Stop projecting.
Earlier, at the dog park, when I felt the hit, when I felt it kick in, the conversation I was having seemed like it had gone on long enough, and I had the nerve to stop and say thanks, have a nice morning, and move on back towards the car.
Me: It’s small decisions that are suddenly so easy.
Her: And what about the large ones?
Me: Haven’t had to make one yet.
The focus is intense at times, and the hours slip past, and part of me feels like I have finally given in to become a productive part of society. The other side of me says, give it a rest. So I do, and the afternoon nap turns into the afternoon listening to a piece of music on the floor with my legs on the sofa.
Later, starving because the appetite is the first to notice the incursion of the high, I throw two burritos in the oven and get in the shower, hoping that I can wash off even a small amount of my skin that I feel like I’m jumping out of.
