Percocets and problems sleeping

I spent a lot of time worrying about an addiction I didn't have.

The moment I got the green light to help him get clean, I started making phone calls figuring out where he could go. I didn't, however, have great experience in this avenue. Most of the stories I'd worked on never tapped into how someone gets clean. So, the first stop was the emergency room.

For those that have had this experience for themselves, I can still feel your pain. Waiting for help in a backed up emergency room — in Worcester, Massachusetts, no less — in the wee hours of the morning is hell in and of itself. Then throw in an addict that's dying for his next fix, but wants to "attempt" to get clean ... cue nails on a chalkboard. He must have sat in every single seat in that waiting room. He yelled at someone's kid. He made a derogative comment to a guy who "looked at him wrong" and whispered — louder than my normal speaking voice — antagonizing remarks about the security guards decorating the room. I was so embarrassed.

In-between those interludes, he would slap and pinch me. On "regular occasions," which I can't even remember when those were now that I think back, he tended to be a physically affectionate person, but the more agitated he'd get waiting there, the more he'd make it clear how uncomfortable he was ... in various, destructive ways.

When he was finally admitted, I listened to the doctor's input with shock. Though he did not want to come right out and say that he was an addict, he made it clear that he did not want any pain pills. The doctor, however, said there wasn't much that they could do, but "manage" the pain. So, the doctor did exactly what I didn't want him to do. He prescribed him more pain pills — gave him a couple Percocets and a doggy bag to go home with.

The good news is he was much nicer to me, but as soon as we got in the car, he took the rest of the pills. All. Of. Them.

He started to drift into this weird state — one I know I'd seen before. He wasn't sleeping, but he definitely wasn't alert. He was kind of frozen in place. His eyes were closed and he'd slowly lean forward into a slumped state all the while still slightly moving his head, hands and shoulders. The first time I saw it, I was petrified. I didn't know what was happening. This time, even though I didn't know exactly what it meant or what was happening, I wasn't as worried about him. What I was worried about was getting him back into the apartment on the third floor.

He's going to be so nasty.

I've had to push drunk people up stairs before — even a few grown men — but this was one hundred, no, one million times worse. He was aggressive. Now that I had a name for what was happening, I guess he was like this a lot. He always managed to break something from the front door to the bedroom. Every. Single. Time. At this point, it wasn't anything I couldn't live without, but still. He broke it. When he was in this kind of state, he'd do this thing where he'd start to sing, but it would turn into him screaming at me. He'd pull me in close like he was going to be affectionate, but that scream — literally yelling — in my ear. Then he would bite me. My ear. My shoulder blade. My neck.

By the time he got to our bedroom, he was more awake and hungry. I swear, he could put away an entire refrigerator if he had his way. It was amazing. He'd take packs of Oreos and cram them into a glass of milk. Once they had gotten especially soggy, he sip them up, so he didn't have to chew.

After he consumed all kinds of crap — mostly sweets — he crawled into bed and aggressively planted an Oreo-crusted kiss on my cheek and pillowcase.

What if he wakes up angry again? What happens when this wears off again?

I slid off the bed and onto the floor where my laptop was. When I swung it open, I started searching online again to try and come up with a game plan. There's no way I was going to sleep now.

What the hell was I supposed to do tomorrow?