non narcotic

Sometimes it’s hard not to compare ourselves to other addicts.

I mean, I know they suggest seeking that whole “similarities not differences” thing.

But some days, I just feel like I’ve got it worse somehow.

“But I have real, *physical* pain!”

Admittedly, this thought’ll pop into my mind. Herniated disc. Fibromyalgia. All the other stupid diagnoses that make you about as bored to read as it makes me to type. (Or to hear when other people say they’ve got it). But, since my daily opiate dependency began thanks to legit pain (coupled with the wrong answer from a white coat who had his own ideas about the meaning of “keep coming back”), I’ll occasionally fall prey to this line of thinking. Even though I’m proactively managing my body misery these days. And, you know what? I’m not gonna lie: once you nix the pills, the pain doesn’t go away. Not on its own. I’ve seen people relapse thanks to it. So, I’m not here to paint pain relief miracle fairy tales for you. But I also realize that comparing my real, physical pain on top of intrinsic sadness to others solely looking to alleviate the latter… helps no one. Least of all me. It’s just a reservation our brains try to implement. A go to excuse that’ll make us feel better the day we decide to relapse.

I, for one, don’t wanna sit in that statistical percentage.

So, how’d I manage? How do I manage now? Well, since half of my pain is structural (the other half fibromyalgia – a disease I resent because it adversely affects me even though I kind of don’t believe in it), I got serious about a plan the moment my “moment of clarity” came. Before I’d even think about quitting for good, I had to get the pain under control and make a commitment toward divorcing the drugs. Thus, I did two things. First, I told someone who I trusted that I had a dependency that’d gotten outta control. This, I knew, would hold me accountable. Then I devised a plan. That plan included several months of physical rehab: water therapy, traction, land therapy. Meanwhile, I was performing chemical-comedown therapy of my own: weaning down slowly from a dose that could’ve put a pack of African pachyderms into a coma. (This was slightly dumb in retrospect; I should’ve had a doctor’s aid earlier but had become a tad paranoid about anything rocking medical garb. Including the stethoscope wearing pterodactyl hovering in the corner of my room who I was now seeing thanks to my incorrect incremental choices for a Valium taper.) And, to my credit, I did great at following through with that plan. Until it came around time to quit for good… Even with the support of a personal hero turned mentor and friend, I still found it tough to enact that final leap. What would life be like on the other side of this thing I’d come to trust as a means of comfort? Could I do it? This was where I knew for sure that it was more than just a physical dependency. There was something deeper going on.

And once that final step was made, it wasn’t going to be easy.

There’s nothing I can say to make the actual act of quitting any easier. It’s this window of willingness you find yourself suddenly shoving yourself through – against all odds, nausea, vomiting, sweats, hallucinations, paranoia, and body racking chills. None of that matters when you consider where you’ve just been. And while that was (a Cliff’s Notes version of) my experience detoxing from opiates and valium simultaneously, it’s different for everyone because everyone’s physiology varies. The common denominator? When we mutually reach the bottom of the bottle, bag, or whatever vial you got off the medicine wagon and truly realize there’s gotta be a better way. We realize that, despite the pain, the relief of the remedy we’ve been trying isn’t worth the cliff it kicks us off once the come down kicks in and tolerance lowers our pain threshold. Our remedy’s betrayed us. It’s made the problem better for a moment, only to make it far, far worse for far, far longer.

For me, that meant it was vital to have a plan.

Still, it was one I could not have carried out alone.

I’m made to understand that a lot of others have survived the same way.

But I wouldn’t have survived had I not started with willingness. Without being gifted the willingness to do some sort’ve low impact exercise – something reasonable to make my body feel good as a replacement – I wouldn’t have lasted. (Even though it’s ridiculously hard when you’re going through withdrawal – it feels worlds better after.) I also wouldn’t have lasted without preceding it with a mapped out taper plan. Or telling a person I knew would care enough to hold me to my task of backtracking out of the inferno holiday I’d been on for far too long. Or the next one who talked me into making the final hop back into reality using some new tools. And those tools – the internal ones – might be the most important step. They set a crucial foundation. Because when you’re still using, the landscape of your mind is naught but your drug of choice, the desire for it, and the pain that both using and not using it comes with. What a trip to a program meeting or the self help section of Barnes ‘n Noble’ll do is swing the binoculars around on that internal landscape and show you a better scenery to work with. It’s there. The trick’s just to redirect your focus by inundating your brain with new people, places, and things that reinforce an improved reality and the hope that you can create one for yourself too, one day at a time. Having those intrinsic tools – be they meditation, yoga, or your daily spiritual practice of assaulting a bag suspended from the ceiling of your gym while pretending it’s your supervisor from work – are so important. In fact, they’re just as important as your daily commitment to eschew using chemicals to ameliorate all pain – from a blown disc to a commute that blows. Every day since my decision to find a better way, I’ve kept a plan that’s kinda like an amplified version of what I began with: something for my brain, something for my spirit, and something for my body – both to feel good and maintain health. For this chick, that means jogging and physical therapy, learning and creating, and doing some yoga while occasionally checking in with others about our shared disease – to make sure I’m not treading over some camouflaged trapdoor back into my old ways.

Staying active and proactive has been the best answer to pain for me.

However, I can appreciate that doesn’t necessarily address every kind of pain that happens in recovery.

There’s endometriosis. Hernias. Internal, gut wrenching stuff that wakes you in the night and isolates you. I’m so lucky that, while my pain is daily and miserable, that I can at least wake up at 4 A.M. and spend four hours coaxing the aches out of my body. That’s a long time (which I complain about often), but some of us in recovery cannot perform a self fix no matter how hard we try. And this is where it gets tricky. Because some addicts will say that it doesn’t count against clean time if your doctor is prescribing the narcotic. Then, there are others don’t believe that. Now, you might be thinking that since I don’t your specific “can’t stretch or mobilize it” kind of chronic, visceral pain (though I do begrudgingly admit I have that fibro thing which I can’t stretch out either) , that I might not have a right to speak on this. However, having gone through two twelve hour long kidney stones stone cold clean and sober, a mere three months after getting clean, I can tell you: No it’s not easy… but, yes, there are alternatives for pain relievers that can help. I learned this when I rushed into the ER, hyperventilating, blacking out, and dreading having to use Torredol instead of the hard stuff. As my body started going into shock, the patronizing male nurse told me to calm down. I thusly informed him his mother could calm me down. Needless to say, I was not being my highest self. But I did manage to apologize not a few hours later. Why? Because soon after my Exorcist level episode, that Torredol worked effing wonders. (And TBH, so did that “calmer breathing” thing I did sorta kinda need to be reminded of by Gaylord Focker.) And what about when I went home? Tramadol. It’s better than Motrin, but sans that serious case of the nods that narcos give you. For non-narcotic, long term pain relief, meds like Tramadol and Celebrex are said to offer non addictive analgesic properties.

However, this is where we revisit that whole spiritual element again – on the whole human-connection level.

Because anyone dealing with chronic pain knows how isolating it is.

And, though it’s the easier option, we can’t just abscond in agony to our home and pill bottles (narcotic or not) 24/7 after fulfilling our adult obligations. That’s imbalanced and a soul sucking ladder climb back up a slide into the junkie pool. As I try to put myself in that position of chronic non-fixable pain (hard, because empathy’s my weakest muscle), I think of those days when I really believed I couldn’t get better or those days now when I refuse to do all the stretches I have to in order to be functional (“I don’t want to! I didn’t ask for this! OTHER people don’t have to do this every day!”). On such days, I float through this ache filtered haze that morphs into confusion and then builds into rage. By midday, I just want to crawl back to my hovel like a wild dog aware that he’s dying and considerate enough save his pack the discomfort of seeing it. The best way I make it through these nights is by rechanneling my brain. Watch or read some inspirational tales from others who’ve suffered similar dark hours and made it to the other side better for it, find some motivational stories about others who deal with chronic pain but remain badass, and try to do something creative while I sip some calming tea. After all that, I’m generally more willing to go to bed with the intention that, yes, tomorrow I’ll wake up and do better. And I usually do, starting with those effing stretches. Because it’s better than the alternative.

Finally, in my defense (and to relate to you better), I will say that there are still many days where my stretches fall short and I still hurt all over. This’s where those hippie tools like meditation or yoga become super helpful. And Catherine Bushnell of the American Pain Society can help us understand why. Because she and other experts have learned that using mind-body techniques such as yoga or meditation can actually change your brain’s relationship with pain – in the reverse direction.

“Practicing yoga has the opposite effect on the brain as does chronic pain,” said Bushnell

Fascinating…. I mean, that’s the whole problem with pain, isn’t it?

The unpleasant response we have to it?

In sum, I encourage anyone suffering mystery pain and trying to recover to keep seeking new medical opinions when you reach an impasse. Do not accept the first person who tells you it can’t be managed without drugs or ever healed. Keep swinging your mind’s viewfinder in the direction you’d like your life to be and hone in on the hopeful answers. Find people who’ve successfully recovered or are managing your same condition while keeping clean. It took me a while to find my sober role models or a medical expert who knew how to marry spirituality with science seamlessly, but it sure as shiz was worth the wait. So, when I say “keep trying”, I’m not trying to pour flower child sugar over your very real problem.

I’m just sayin’, ya know: don’t give up.

Because the years I spent finding a fix are immaterial compared to the value of discovering it at all. So before you reach for your next dose, let me gently remind you: you don’t have to wait for some moment of clarity like I did. You can be better. You can start now. Get honest with your doc, design a pain management plan, and look up a supportive program in your area.

Best of luck, friend.