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Sunday, June 28

Michael Jackson + Addiction – Life at its Most Unfair


I'm getting really pissed over the tenor of all this media coverage - and I'll tell you why. It's the whole prescription meds angle. Michael Jackson likely died due to an overdose of pain medication. Christ!! Every time some celebrity either dies or gets sent to rehab for using prescription pain meds as a route to getting high - my doctors get squirrely over treating my chronic pain. I've a hard time getting them to treat the pain in the first place (why is it women are always told to just ignore severe pain? As if that were possible!). But as soon as the media gets in an uproar pontificating over all the supposed people lining up to abuse pain medication – doctors become loath to prescribe anything – no matter how badly needed. And I need them. Badly.

So I’m royally pissed. The only people I ever hear of using pain meds to get high are indulged celebrities. The rest of us barely get our pain treated at all. And I am always in pain. Always. Every fucking minute of every fucking day (including the last few, which have been a nightmare). The meds I am rationed only ease it enough so I can manage to walk across the room – they never really alleviate it. And that under-prescribing is not about addiction, actually. You don’t become addicted if the meds relieve real pain (or so my doctors keep telling me). It’s the Puritanical belief that pain is something to be endured. Just suck it up and move on. Well the people who believe that have never lain writhing on the floor unable to breathe because they hurt so damn much. Sleep? Pffft. Not likely – and when I do – I experience pain in my dreams. So I never really escape. My pain is always there. It greets me in the morning and I shake hands with it every night.

So now we have Michael fucking Jackson and his medicated trips in and out of Neverland. Great. Fucking great. I’ll be needing my prescription renewed soon – and I anticipate trouble. The last time Rush Limbaugh got caught with fake prescriptions – the pain clinic I was attending decided to cut patients meds in half. You’ve no idea what it’s like to sit in a hospital waiting room listening to some poor sonofabitch cry himself silly because he can’t get any relief for his cancer pain. Me? I weep every day. I weep every day 'cause I hurt every day; that's my life. So yes, it’s terrible that Michael Jackson died. Really. I’m sorry for him, for his family and for his kids; but this talk of policing Anna Nicole-like over-prescribing will not have the effect people are looking for. Wealthy celebrities will still be able to buy Oxycontin and Methadone any time they damn well please – while the rest of us (those who really need pain relief) – will have one hell of a time getting the occasional Vicodin.

But then I guess life is never fair.

Here's Michael in better days - when it was only about talent and ability. I've noticed something, by the way - as I've watched the endless streaming videos: Michael Jackson was one angry fella. Seriously. There's lots of violence and destruction to be had in every one of his mini films. I’d say Michael was mad at the entire world. Maybe he had good reason to be – I don’t know. Pity it got him in the end. RIP, Michael. It wasn’t your fault - not really. No one was ever looking out for you, I guess.

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