Prologue

Bohemian Tree Villa Nestled In India

I’d honestly rather millions of drug addicts get safe opiates from doctors, than a single person with chronic pain go without because of the drug addiction fear mongering in the medical community. 

Portugal legalized everything, with a couple caveats. If you’re found with (large amounts of, IIRC) drugs multiple times, you get a panel. The panel consists of a lawyer, a judge, and a doctor. Their job is to help you deal with addiction–not PUNISH YOU for having drugs, but help you overcome addiction.

And now a lot of doctors won’t prescribe them, which fucks over people like me who can’t function without the pain control they provide. And since the pharmacy companies charge an assbutt for oxycontin and for abuse-resistant things like Xtampza, insurance companies won’t pay for them. 

Yesterday, I spent 60 dollars on groceries, took the bus home, carried both bags with two good arms back to my studio apartment and cooked myself dinner. You and I may have different definitions of a good day. This week, I paid my rent and my credit card bill, worked 60 hours between my two jobs, only saw the sun on my cigarette breaks and slept like a rock. Flossed in the morning, locked my door, and remembered to buy eggs. My mother is proud of me. It is not the kind of pride she brags about at the golf course. She doesn’t combat topics like, ”My daughter got into Yale” with, ”Oh yeah, my daughter remembered to buy eggs” But she is proud. See, she remembers what came before this. The weeks where I forgot how to use my muscles, how I would stay as silent as a thick fog for weeks. She thought each phone call from an unknown number was the notice of my suicide. These were the bad days. My life was a gift that I wanted to return. My head was a house of leaking faucets and burnt-out lightbulbs. Depression, is a good lover. So attentive; has this innate way of making everything about you. And it is easy to forget that your bedroom is not the world, That the dark shadows your pain casts is not mood-lighting. It is easier to stay in this abusive relationship than fix the problems it has created. Today, I slept in until 10, cleaned every dish I own, fought with the bank, took care of paperwork. You and I might have different definitions of adulthood. I don’t work for salary, I didn’t graduate from college, but I don’t speak for others anymore, and I don’t regret anything I can’t genuinely apologize for. And my mother is proud of me. I burned down a house of depression, I painted over murals of greyscale, and it was hard to rewrite my life into one I wanted to live But today, I want to live. I didn’t salivate over sharp knives, or envy the boy who tossed himself off the Brooklyn bridge. I just cleaned my bathroom, did the laundry, called my brother. Told him, “it was a good day.

“women can’t drive”

“women can’t drive” (The Guardian) (CBS News) (Insurance Institute for Highway Safety)

… black people are literally 3.73 times more likely to get arrested for possession of marijuana than white people. on top of that, black people are incarcerated at more than 5 times the rate of white ppl…. not to mention deadly police officers use marijuana as a justification to abuse their power amongst the black community. this issue is inherently racist and it always has been. so yes,…. “I don’t want to see this quirky shit until all the black people who are in jail for small marijuana charges are released.”