Methadone in the madness . . .

I’m sat on the settee with my love. He’s passing me grapes. The cat’s getting in on the action, purring away and lording it up. It’s the first glimpse of normality we have seen in days, if you could call our current life normal.

It’s really late. My phone has died so I’m unaware of the time, but i do know that it’s past midnight. At this moment in time its irrelevant, I’m just enjoying the moment. We’re talking and giggling about the stories we’re going to write – Hes aware that I’m scribbling away as we chat.

“A spoonful of sugar helps the methadone go down!” he sings…

He knows silly things like this make me laugh and he knows how much i enjoy it when he sings to me. It was one of the things that drew me to him on our first date. He knows how much worry he has caused me these last weeks. He reaches out and holds my hand and gives it a squeeze. Our eyes meet; we look at each other. The look is that of reassurance to each other that things are on the mend and the intention is there. I ruin the moment by reminding him that we need a new toilet seat.

He’s spent the past week living in the bedroom like a hermit. Sleeping all day and only leaving the house for his ‘fix’ and more recently his methadone script. Back to sleep and intermittently spending long periods of time in the bathroom whilst I’m sat with my legs crossed watching crap daytime television waiting for my turn.

It’s no secret that opiates affect the bowel function somewhat. Constipation can cause one to feel pretty dreadful. One particular day he was writhing around holding his stomach in pain. His belly was as hard and round as a barrel. I went to the chemist for a remedy, unfortunately they didn’t sell dynamite but they did have glycerin suppositories. I’ll spare you the details of the plan of attack, but let’s just say; He got the rocket up the ass that he needed. It took a while to take effect, but boy did it work! I joked that i always suspected that he was full of sh*t! His day was spent in the lavatory, mine was spent burning Nag Champa incense sticks.

Everything seemed to go quiet. The cursing has ceased and the toilet hadn’t been flushed in a while. I thought that i had better do a welfare check. The cat was frantically scratching the carpet by the bathroom door, he wanted in. I explained to the cat that it was probably best he didn’t go in the bathroom. I cautiously opened the bathroom door, the cat dashed in between my legs, and i was met by a very naked boyfriend. He was sat fast asleep on the loo, letting out an occasional loud snore. I gave him a shout to wake him up, surely he couldn’t be comfortable. He roused “I’m alright love, I’m alright!” . . . that was a matter of opinion! I returned to the living room and continued to watch Richard and Catherine pick which ‘place in the sun’ they wanted.

A short while passed. All of a sudden there was a almighty bang and clatter. I already anticipated what had happened. I dashed upstairs, and there he was, his knees on the bathroom floor and his head in the bath. A crumpled up mess. a sight to behold! It was that catalytic moment that induced me into floods of tears. normally I’d have a sense of humour, but that was long gone along with my patience. Nothing seemed sacred anymore, not even the toilet seat.

. . . And suddenly I arrived at the bitter realisation that my mental state was suddenly an analogy of the toilet seat. The thread had gone and buckled and broken under the pressure.

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