I'm OK Now
Back in 2012 and 2013, I was addicted to Percocet. Like so many people that have become dependent on pain meds, I didn’t start recreationally. I was born with cerebral palsy, and my lower joints are painful—there is some bone deformity and arthritis. Some joints have very little cartilage to begin with. By winter 2012 my left hip was just completely worn out. Bone on bone, seriously painful. I was still teaching guitar and writing music, but I was not insured at the time. Yeah. So, as I waited for approval on the surgery, I lived in a cocoon of opiate numbness. Those were dark times, for me and my family.
I remember a particular moment when I was sitting in front of my computer, mixing some music, and a pain shot through my hip—like a flaming brand, flashing down my leg. That was my cue: it was time for another dose. Two, 10mg pills, good for about five hours of relief. The reality of it made its way through the fog in my head, thinking to myself that this was it. This is my life now, I might not get surgery at all, and if I don’t, the drug is going to depress my nervous system to the point that one day I’ll nod off and just not come back. I began to panic—I felt trapped in my body, unable to even get up and pace. I remember thinking, keep going. Take a breath. This isn’t the end. You are not your body. Hang on. You’ll get the surgery, and you’ll get off these damn pills. It was a panic attack forcibly transformed into a self-defining moment of determination.
Back in 2012 and 2013, I was addicted to Percocet. Like so many people that have become dependent on pain meds, I didn’t start recreationally. I was born with cerebral palsy, and my lower joints are painful—there is some bone deformity and arthritis. Some joints have very little cartilage to begin with. By winter 2012 my left hip was just completely worn out. Bone on bone, seriously painful. I was still teaching guitar and writing music, but I was not insured at the time. Yeah. So, as I waited for approval on the surgery, I lived in a cocoon of opiate numbness. Those were dark times, for me and my family.
I remember a particular moment when I was sitting in front of my computer, mixing some music, and a pain shot through my hip—like a flaming brand, flashing down my leg. That was my cue: it was time for another dose. Two, 10mg pills, good for about five hours of relief. The reality of it made its way through the fog in my head, thinking to myself that this was it. This is my life now, I might not get surgery at all, and if I don’t, the drug is going to depress my nervous system to the point that one day I’ll nod off and just not come back. I began to panic—I felt trapped in my body, unable to even get up and pace. I remember thinking, keep going. Take a breath. This isn’t the end. You are not your body. Hang on. You’ll get the surgery, and you’ll get off these damn pills. It was a panic attack forcibly transformed into a self-defining moment of determination.
Back in 2012 and 2013, I was addicted to Percocet. Like so many people that have become dependent on pain meds, I didn’t start recreationally. I was born with cerebral palsy, and my lower joints are painful—there is some bone deformity and arthritis. Some joints have very little cartilage to begin with. By winter 2012 my left hip was just completely worn out. Bone on bone, seriously painful. I was still teaching guitar and writing music, but I was not insured at the time. Yeah. So, as I waited for approval on the surgery, I lived in a cocoon of opiate numbness. Those were dark times, for me and my family.
I remember a particular moment when I was sitting in front of my computer, mixing some music, and a pain shot through my hip—like a flaming brand, flashing down my leg. That was my cue: it was time for another dose. Two, 10mg pills, good for about five hours of relief. The reality of it made its way through the fog in my head, thinking to myself that this was it. This is my life now, I might not get surgery at all, and if I don’t, the drug is going to depress my nervous system to the point that one day I’ll nod off and just not come back. I began to panic—I felt trapped in my body, unable to even get up and pace. I remember thinking, keep going. Take a breath. This isn’t the end. You are not your body. Hang on. You’ll get the surgery, and you’ll get off these damn pills. It was a panic attack forcibly transformed into a self-defining moment of determination.