Tuesday 10 March 2015
Here I sit, 2am, narcotic thoughts dueling in my brain—raging brutes who shriek lies in shrill tones that ricochet round the interior of my skull like .223 high-velocity-full-metal-jacket-rounds. My body, too, shrieks—twitches—squirms—pleads for relief. For the moment, I am a wreck of a junkie going through withdrawal from Fentanyl, a narcotic 100x stronger than Morphine. A narcotic that mitigates pain that racks my body. Pain left over from a spinal cord injury and seven surgical repair attempts. Over time, use of Fentanyl causes me personality changes that are worrisome to Sweet Grecy, so I quit—cold turkey—I quit. A thing I hash and rehash sometimes twice a year. So for the moment—I am a wreck. All my thoughts are untrustworthy. They offer longwinded diatribes—ever changing arguments—hammer and anvil TV sales pitches ending with, “But that’s not all…” and that is never-ever the all of it—and after time, when that has not worked, they do the tried and true switcheroo, singing seductive in alluring, honey-sweet tones. A siren’s rock candy song begging me to again crash upon their stony shore.
I must be honest. I have no choice. Lies will undermine me, and I have come so far since arriving at this distant hideaway. I need time and love. Each passing hour weakens the voices. Writing an honest letter to be seen by all weakens their grip. The protective love of my wife, Sweet Grecy, and daughter, Samantha, provide a safe and comfortable place to heal.
In the end, all will be well. That has always been the story of my life. I am in no hurry to leave it. I take my time here, even the worst of it, to be a blessing. I will hobble through this, and through the rest of my days working to be good husband and father, a friend to those I know, and to soften life for others whenever possible. Maybe I will even have time to write a story of two. That will be the icing on my double chocolate cake. So…as the Aussies say: I’ll see ya when I see ya.
To read more of Sigurd’s letters, click here!