A pill to make you numb
A pill to make you dumb
A pill to make you any body else
All the drugs in this world
Won't save me from myself.

Oh lord, how I miss it. I miss the tiny wadded cigarette pack cellophanes, tucked in the tiny pocket of my jeans, my bra, my sock. Hidden deep in a (sometimes hidden) pocket in my purse. Clenched in my hand, I can feel the small weight of a certainty, A little, solid chunk that will form barrier of chemicals against the night and the truth of the soul.

I don't miss the sickness, the loss of trust and friends, the shameful selling off of property, the begging, the nights spent naked in front of a fan one second, then curled up in three blankets the next. I don't miss the hallucinations, the delirum, the diarrhea, the glaring sunlight diffused only a little by the frosted bathroom window, hitting my eyes and sending shards of glass into my eyes and brain as I sat on the edge of the tub, emptying my guts and crying. Nor do I miss the idiocy, the inevitable lack of intimacy, the resentment, The inability to stand, nevermind enjoy, the touch of another human.
These reasons are why I'm clean.

But goddamn, I miss the chemicals dissolving into the mucous membrane in my sinuses, the soft halos coming in around everything, the relaxing muscles. The softening of the edges of the entire world. Everything receding: people, debts, hunger, desire, misery and angst. The ability to truly care about another person. Half an hour later and I'm stoned, able to watch TV and sit still. I never sat in one place without fidgeting until I was seventeen years old, and bought six milligrams of Xanax in two milligram bars off of that skeezy kid I went to high school with who ended up going to jail when he was twenty for selling a cop pills and coke. Calmness is such an inattainable thing for me, once I found a fool-proof way to have it on demand, I couldn't resist.

I can live without it. I know that. The trouble is convincing myself that I actually want to, some times.