It’s 6am.

I’ve slept probably 3 hours at the most. I’ve increased the dosing intervals for my Percocet from 6 to 8 hours and I’m feeling it. My leg starts to ache well before it’s time for my next dose, probably not because I need it for pain suppression but rather because I’m addicted to the pain killer. It’s harder to move around when my leg hurts. I have a banana. I drag the useless weight to the bathroom, then to the fridge for a few swallows of cold brew coffee. I’d like to put on a shirt because I’m a little bit cooler than I’d like but right now getting off the bed again and over to the shelf to fetch a shirt seems too hard.

Every time I get up or sit down it’s an event. Jam my knee down uncomfortably and lock the brace into the straight position. Drag my leg off the side of the bed. Lean over and pull the crutches up. Balance on my one good leg while I settle the crutches into my torso. Then off I go, every swing of my leg a disaster waiting to happen. Each step is a chance to slip and fall, causing further damage to my leg or other parts of my body.

As I finish writing this, the caffeine and the percocet kick in, causing me to sigh with relief and granting me another four to five hours of blissful relief before I begin the slow descent into misery again for the remaining three to four hours. At the seven hour mark I’ll be jonesing for the perkies. Maybe the pain management specialist is right: Maybe I am a junkie.