Make It Stop

It had been almost eight hours since my last oxy, and my misery was only beginning.

The trembling began a few hours ago like it always does. Every few seconds, spasms of intense agitation caused my arms and legs to jerk painfully.

The withdrawals were taking effect.

The physical symptoms were punishing enough, but the mental repercussions were insufferable. There was no escape; nowhere I could flee from the intense shudders and twitches that pulsed throughout my inner world. It was as though my mind was dry heaving, even as my body erratically convulsed.

Both the internal and external violence were relentless, beyond my worst expectations of suffering, and it was only going to get worse. Much worse. I would rather die than go through this again. I prayed to God for it to stop.

But it didn't.

I was in hell, and there were only two options: kill myself or find a fix. Jesus, not to mention that it was 8:30 PM, and I hadn't eaten all day. A burger might help with the nausea.

It was going to be a long night.

I found my way to the Walmart parking lot in the small city of Waterville, Maine where I hoped to score enough money to afford an oxy. I'd get some smack if I couldn't come up with enough scratch for the good stuff, but I had to be careful. Folks have been dropping like flies since the new shipment of fent hit town.

How did it come to this? Just eleven years ago, I was the pride of my town--a veteran of both Afghanistan and Iraq. Then a roadside IED put an end to my ability to fight, to work, to live a normal life.

We were told that the VA would take care of us. That our country would welcome us, and that we would not want for the necessities of life, let alone the most basic dignity of a home.

Well, the VA is a goddamn mess, and I fell through the cracks every time I reached out for help. The chronic pain led to me to opiates, which had the side effect of making me happy and taking away my fears and misery...for a while. I used them up too quickly, so the VA wouldn't renew my script. Quaking and shaking with withdrawals, I started stealing from my friends and family. When they cut me off, I was left bawling and begging for help on the streets to get what I needed.

Soon the oxy became too expensive and I had to settle for heroin. Whatever. It took away my pain, my nightmares, my fear. It had become my savior...but it wasn't free. It was a cruel and demanding master. It cost me everyone I loved and respected. I don't even bother reaching out anymore; I can't stand to see the shame and disappointment in their eyes.

The VA refused to give me full disability, but I was in too much pain, and too high, to hold down a job, so I lost my apartment and moved into a tent by the Kennebec River. I wasn't alone down there in the mud and damp grasses, and neither was my story unique.

I tried not to give in to bitterness--but to fight for this country, and sacrifice my youth, my health, my peace--and my payment was homelessness and addiction. It just ain't right.

As I walked through the Walmart parking lot looking for someone to approach and, well, beg from, I saw a middle-aged couple loading up their SUV. My hopes lifted a bit. They seemed like decent, middle-class folks. If I approached a woman by herself, she'd panic and call the cops on me, so the fact that there was a man with her increased my odds of getting help. The key was to come off as harmless.

"Ex-ex-excuse m-m-m-me, sir." I cursed inwardly at how pathetic my stammering sounded, but it wouldn't improve until I got my fix. "C-could I have a few dollars for a b-burger?"

At first, the man glared at me menacingly, but I kept my distance and my tone gentle.

"I'm afraid I don't carry cash," he replied without warmth but neither harsh nor defensive.

"O-ok, thanks a-a-anyway." Shit. I'll have to keep trying.

As I shuffled away towards a different part of the parking lot, I heard a shout from behind me.

"Sir!"

It was the man I'd just spoken with; he was jogging towards me. He called me, "Sir."

"Hey, there," he said. "My wife had a little bit of cash so, here ya go." He handed me a five and a few ones. It wouldn't buy me what I needed, but it was a lot more than most people gave. I looked him in the eyes and saw no judgment, only compassion. It was as if he had experienced at least some of what I was going through. He truly did wish that he had more to give me.

I nodded my head and stammered, "Thank you," as the man turned and returned to his car--and his middle-class life.

What must it be like to be that strong, healthy, capable? I didn't resent the man, but I would be lying if I wasn't jealous. A nice, newer car, loaded with groceries, and a pretty wife to keep him company. What I would give for a life like that.

When I joined the military, I had dreams too, and they didn't include drug addiction, unemployment, and homelessness.

For today, I would give anything just to take away these insufferable withdrawals and put a burger in my aching gut.