Writing While High

by Sandra Gail Lambert

Writing While High by Sandra Gail Lambert

I have chronic pain. Mostly I've used the gut-it-out method of dealing. But after over a quarter of a century, I've decided that is inane. So I tried various narcotics which doctors routinely offer in this era of no pain should be suffered. The first pill is always quite lovely, and always, the second leaves me desperately nauseated, shivering, and inverting my innards into the toilet. When medical marijuana was allowed in my state, I signed up. It was expensive not just for the actual drug but also all the licensing and required appointments, and you can be sure that Medicare does not pay for it. It worked a bit for a while, but then all the reasons I quit using back in the seventies were there again—anxiety, paranoia, and even more fatigue than I already had. Then a doctor recommended Gabapentin. It wasn't addictive, she said. So I started, small doses building up to bigger ones. It worked great for pain, but I was way stoned every day. Plus, I was not willing to never ever have an orgasm ever again. I dropped my dosage little by little they way they say to and wow, you know, I've never withdrawn from anything except alcohol and the physical part of that was in the eighties. I felt bad. Electrical shocks sparked all over my skin. I sweat so much. I was outrageously anxious. I cried and cried. But I gutted it out and after a few months that was done.    

Right now, two years later, I'm high on Gabapentin again. A friend told me how she takes one occasionally for back pain, and I literally smacked my own self up the side of the head because I hadn't thought of that before. I blame my all or nothing brain that told me occasional pain relief would make me notice more when I was in pain, ruin my ability to deal with pain and make me sad about being in pain. The logic of this is wrong. That's not how it works. I took 300mg last night. And I slept great and don't hurt or at least I don't care that I hurt and I love it so much.

My new regimen is to dose myself once a week on a day when I don't have to drive or speak to anyone much. I didn't realize how much I slurred words until I listened to a Substack audio recording I made on a "gaby" day. I should have left it up so you could make Cheech and Chong jokes at my expense and we could have a chuckle together. Another worry was about losing a writing day, but I'm writing. Not well, but a lot even between the "squirrel" moments of the ping of new message on email or a FB notification which I have to look at right away and then I watch videos of that guy who impersonates dogs and laugh and laugh—I mean the one where he's just been groomed and jumps in the mud puddle can't be watched often enough— and then I send emoji hearts to a lot of friends' posts and then write "awwwww" on too many others because I love everyone right now and then go pee again because I'm an old lady with an old lady bladder, but I'm careful of the door jambs because my power chair counts as operating heavy equipment. Once I tuck myself back on the bed and arrange all the pillows, the dog jumps up beside me. We have a long conversation while I twirl her ears and she looks at me with those liquid eyes.

And then the document pops back to the forefront of the computer screen and I am back to writing and words just come and come. This is unusual for me.  My editing brain, which kicks in before I’ve written a single word, seems to have gone on a little vacation. Probably to a sentence diagraming conference or grammar convention or maybe to a meditation retreat for uptight, controlling cerebral cortexes. I can hope. And I can use this time. I'll plan new writing on the moderately wasted day and revisions the rest of the week.

End of Essay

P.S. My editor returned to work and wrested this article away from me. They did some light editing what with the run-on sentences that switched tenses willy-nilly but were shocked to find most of it intelligible.

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