CaliburX
Greenlighter
What's up everybody. First off, a Happy New Year to everyone on these boards. May 2011 hold promising new avenues for all of us. And, of course, a safe, responsible year of drug usage for those applicable.
Being the kind, caring individual that I am, I'm going to give those of you who don't like to read entirely-too-long-containing-perhaps-entirely-too-much-information-posts a quick, hasty forewarning/way out:
For the short, abbreviated version of this post, scroll down many paragraphs past the line-breaks. You'll know you've arrived there when you see something along the lines of "Abbreviated Version of Post Starts Here" or something equally witty and imaginative along those lines.
For the longer, complete version which basically just features a somewhat abbreviated personal history and explanation of why I was on methadone maintenance in the first place, please just continue reading. It won't be THAT long. At least, I hope not... I will try my best to make it entertaining, though. That much I promise. It's a pretty decent story if I do say so myself. Especially if you're bored or need something to read on the toilet...
To start, a quick background.
Some of you may remember me from the methadone and bupe threads. Or even the poppy pod tea thread. I would imagine you could roughly calculate the dots of what happened to me with that information alone, but that just isn't how I roll. So let's delve into the whole history -- mainly because I think I can get the best answers for my questions with this information. Don't worry though, as I'll do my best to brief and concise.
So, let's start at the beginning...
I joined the Marine Corps straight out of high school. Actually, to be more accurate, I joined up officially near the mid-point of my junior year and trained and studied the following year and a half for my future stay at Parris Island University. Otherwise known (sometimes even affectionately) as boot camp.
How I got kicked out exactly is a lengthy and incredibly depressing story (at least for me). Basically it centered on a lie I told, at the behest of my superiors, in order to ensure my enlistment. Some things happened -- seemingly (at the time) random things that all converged into a case of pnemonia so bad, all of my personal medical files were unlocked in case there was any conflicting or important information within them from my past.
All of this happened just a few weeks from graduation and took me completely by storm. My entire world -- everything I'd thought I would become and be a part of and had spent so much effort and emotion delving into, was ripped away from me in the span of about two weeks. Looking back, even with the details surrounding my discharge, it was still kind of weird, since this was just a trio or so years removed from September 11th and it certainly wasn't like there were a TON of people messed in the head enough to voluntarily jump up and down asking to be front-line infantry in Iraq. For the Marine Corps, no less. But, I digress. Since this all happened and over the past several years, I'm now a strong believer in everything happening for a reason. I'm quite certain I wouldn't be here right now had I gone ahead and graduated and got my "wish" to serve on the front lines...
I had been courted and seduced on the way into the service, being given a government-level hotel room (with an automatic, friendly-female wake-up call!), a one-way airplane ticket to the hallowed Island and even a $50 meal ticket for one dinner prior to arriving at boot. Not that I was very hungry...
Once my discharge was pushed through, I was unceremoniously shipped home with nothing but a one-way, 35+ hour bus ticket home and strict orders that I'd be sent to the brig (military prison) if I did anything stupid on my way home. As such, I was fairly happy and even thrilled to return home -- even under the circumstances. But this lasted for about a day or two before I came to grips with why I was actually there. And started wondering what in the fucking world I was going to do now?
I felt like an absolute failure, despite being in peak physical condition thanks to pre-boot camp training. I knew Marine Corps history inside-and-out, had memorized everything I would need to learn at boot camp beforehand and quite simply, had fallen in love with the concept of becoming a United States Marine. Everything I'd envisioned myself to be -- both physically, mentally and as a man in regards to my legacy and honor -- it was all imploded within itself and destroyed once I was dumped on my doorstep with my tail between my legs. And the sad thing was, I didn't even really do anything.
Despite the fact that my family tree is littered with alcoholics and addicts and that I actually knew all this, I jumped headfirst into an even deeper love affair with whiskey and a newfound one with opiates. Other drugs tried to seduce me and I wholeheartedly let them. But opiates... they won my undying affection. And more regrettably, my full attention span. I just didn't give a fuck. The world I had thought I had known and was mine had been turned upside down and lit on fire.
More importantly, the using took away the constant feeling that I was no longer worth anything as a man. That I wasn't a colossal failure who'd never be anything or make anything of my life no matter what I decided to do with it. When I look back at this as the source of my whole descent into an addict, the fact that I was constantly barraged by Drill Instructors throughout my rapid two-week discharge period didn't really help matters. Some people say they brainwash you in boot camp and quite honestly, I think this is somewhat based in truth. I can't speak for all branches, but in the Marine Corps boot camp, they break you down to a pitiless shell of your former self and then build you back up.
Problem was, and this -- I think -- is the most important portion of the whole story, is that I was discharged directly prior to the "building back up" stage. I never was built back up. And while my former platoon mates were enjoying the process of being hardened into a refined steel of a warrior, being reborn from the hope and despair of their breakdowns, I was being further belittled, put down and basically told that I was completely and utterly worthless. That I was, indeed, the vermin on the bottom of a rock. Legit.
Even despite all this, I can't harbor much resentment. My case was a rare one and the vast majority of washed out recruits that took the path I took out of the service only do so because they went to vast extremes to get the fuck out of there. Several people I had the "honor" to be kicked out with had cut themselves multiple times, threatened suicide and even had tried to attack a Drill Instructor (he was promptly beat-the-fuck-down, and he deserved it). So despite the fact that I've come to recognize this as the seed that sprouted into me becoming an addict, I can't hold much resentment. At least not now...
The fact that I was being portrayed as one of these spineless lowlife's from the moment I learned I was being discharged until today when I tell people I was kicked out of the Marines is what hurt me the most. And unfortunately, for a long time, I was made to believe that this was all that I was. And was all that I would ever be.
I was confused as fuck and I was as sad as I'd ever been. I'd actually been the happiest I'd ever been in boot camp -- at least in the beginning. I finally felt like I belonged... and then it was gone. It was a mind-fuck of the most exponential proportions.
Whiskey, opiates -- mainly Oxy's and heroin and ultimately, that deceptive, seductive, vile, evil-ass brew known as pod tea. I'm sure many of you are intimately familiar with many of these things and in the right hands -- mainly in those of one with an iron-will, an unbreakable discipline -- they can be used responsibly. Don't get it twisted -- this isn't an anti-drugs manifesto of any sort.
Back on topic and to fast forward a bit, I used and I used hard, with it getting progressively worse each time. I no longer recognized myself anymore. I was indeed still a shell of my former self and I didn't care about anything else save for getting the fuck away from the feelings and thoughts that made me come to grips with the worst experience of my life.
Eventually, I even lost all ability to even feel minor feelings of happiness. Or rather, even minor feelings of any postive nature. Depression, anxiety, regret and hopelessness were my friends at that time and unfortunately, the only way I could put some miles between us was to use. Or to drink heavily. Or both. It was often both.
My brain wasn't right. From research I did on the topic while jammed out of my mind, all this was because I'd essentially bombed (and even confused) the shit out of my brain's endorphin production center. Essentially, it thought it could take a near-permanent vacation since I was flooding fake-endorphins (opiates) into my system all the damn time.
Arguably, the strongest benefit of methadone maintenance is that it gives your brain the necessary time to heal from long-term opiate usage. For whatever reason, the makeup of methadone doesn't effect your brain in ways that other opiate-derivative drugs do. Bupe (Suboxen or Subutex for the uninitiated) does the same thing -- to the best of my knowledge.
With that brief, scientific jaunt-tangent aside (not to mention depressing personal history breakdown), let's get into the specifics of my methadone maintenance history. And more importantly, the questions and goals I have for this thread in general.
I started methadone maintenance -- to the best of my knowledge -- in mid-April, 2010. Give or take a few days. They started me at 20mg and I went up 5mg a day until I reached 90mg on (or around) May 1st. Twas when I totally stopped feeling any withdrawal symptoms. Or that's at least what I told them. In truth, I stopped feeling withdrawal symptoms at around 50-60mg but just kept on going up because I was enjoying the (albeit very brief) high way too much. Once a junkie, always a junkie, right?
I stayed at 90mg for a month-and-a-half/two months or so before going up to 100mg. I stayed there for about three months before going up to 110mg. I stayed there about a month before finally finishing at 120mg somewhere around mid-November-ish. I stayed there until early December when they started my financial detox.
Now, I'd originally planned to come down nice and slooooooow since I've heard WAY too many horror stories about coming off of methadone maintenance. I've been making myself feel better these past few days by thinking that most of these horror stories had to do with people who had to come cold turkey off a high dose of methadone (see: jailtime, nut-house), but I don't really know. Tis a big reason why I made this thread!
Ultimately, the true purpose of this thread is two-fold:
1.) For me (or anyone else who has or may have any experience in the future) to learn and know what to expect from maximum medical allowed methadone maintenance detox (5mg a day, straight-damn-through).
2.) For me to chronicle my symptoms and experiences as I go through the withdrawal following a maximum medical allowed methadone maintenance detox and as such, for this information to be available for research and/or enlightening oneself of what it's like (see also: to help prepare oneself for potential torture).
In summary, I dropped down from 120mg of methadone after being on maintenance for more-or-less... nine months or so. 5mg a day, of which I had my last 5mg dose Friday morning -- New Year's Eve to be exact. Nice people, huh?
Feel free to offer any insight, experience (as stated earlier) and advice wherever warranted. Other related questions are also, obviously, encouraged. Hopefully this doesn't turn into some debate about whether methadone (or even bupe) is useful or beneficial or whatever. To be completely honest, I think it served its purpose. At least for me. I finally feel happy again and this past Christmas holiday was the first one in a long fucking time where I actually felt happy to simply be alive. I practically forgot that such a feeling even existed without drugs!
With that said, the purpose of this thread is to discuss and chronicle (at least for me) the effects of methadone maintenance withdrawal. Primarily in regards to the maximum allowed medical detox (5mg a day) and not a cold turkey detox. I think it's pretty common knowledge that a cold turkey, straight drop-off detox from methadone is a surefire way to experiencing the purest, most true form of torture known to man. Or at least, close to it. But yeah, if you could all please keep your personal insights, feelings and opinions on maintenance as a whole to yourself, it would be much appreciated. Muchos gracios and allegre ano nuevo! (Pretty sure that's wrong, but hey, it's pretty close, yes?)
My symptoms/experiences from the last two days will follow in consecutive posts. In the meantime (or post-time) between these posts, if anyone whose experienced what I'm talking about here, if you could tell me what I can expect in the days, weeks and months ahead, I would be exceptionally grateful. Even if it's bad news as I have a strong feeling of certainty the news, at the very least, certainly isn't going to be what would deem good. Or happy. Or joyful. Tale your pick.
Thank you in advance and I look forward to a great discussion!
Being the kind, caring individual that I am, I'm going to give those of you who don't like to read entirely-too-long-containing-perhaps-entirely-too-much-information-posts a quick, hasty forewarning/way out:
For the short, abbreviated version of this post, scroll down many paragraphs past the line-breaks. You'll know you've arrived there when you see something along the lines of "Abbreviated Version of Post Starts Here" or something equally witty and imaginative along those lines.
For the longer, complete version which basically just features a somewhat abbreviated personal history and explanation of why I was on methadone maintenance in the first place, please just continue reading. It won't be THAT long. At least, I hope not... I will try my best to make it entertaining, though. That much I promise. It's a pretty decent story if I do say so myself. Especially if you're bored or need something to read on the toilet...
-------- Long, Complete Version of Post Starts Here --------
To start, a quick background.
Some of you may remember me from the methadone and bupe threads. Or even the poppy pod tea thread. I would imagine you could roughly calculate the dots of what happened to me with that information alone, but that just isn't how I roll. So let's delve into the whole history -- mainly because I think I can get the best answers for my questions with this information. Don't worry though, as I'll do my best to brief and concise.
So, let's start at the beginning...
I joined the Marine Corps straight out of high school. Actually, to be more accurate, I joined up officially near the mid-point of my junior year and trained and studied the following year and a half for my future stay at Parris Island University. Otherwise known (sometimes even affectionately) as boot camp.
How I got kicked out exactly is a lengthy and incredibly depressing story (at least for me). Basically it centered on a lie I told, at the behest of my superiors, in order to ensure my enlistment. Some things happened -- seemingly (at the time) random things that all converged into a case of pnemonia so bad, all of my personal medical files were unlocked in case there was any conflicting or important information within them from my past.
All of this happened just a few weeks from graduation and took me completely by storm. My entire world -- everything I'd thought I would become and be a part of and had spent so much effort and emotion delving into, was ripped away from me in the span of about two weeks. Looking back, even with the details surrounding my discharge, it was still kind of weird, since this was just a trio or so years removed from September 11th and it certainly wasn't like there were a TON of people messed in the head enough to voluntarily jump up and down asking to be front-line infantry in Iraq. For the Marine Corps, no less. But, I digress. Since this all happened and over the past several years, I'm now a strong believer in everything happening for a reason. I'm quite certain I wouldn't be here right now had I gone ahead and graduated and got my "wish" to serve on the front lines...
I had been courted and seduced on the way into the service, being given a government-level hotel room (with an automatic, friendly-female wake-up call!), a one-way airplane ticket to the hallowed Island and even a $50 meal ticket for one dinner prior to arriving at boot. Not that I was very hungry...
Once my discharge was pushed through, I was unceremoniously shipped home with nothing but a one-way, 35+ hour bus ticket home and strict orders that I'd be sent to the brig (military prison) if I did anything stupid on my way home. As such, I was fairly happy and even thrilled to return home -- even under the circumstances. But this lasted for about a day or two before I came to grips with why I was actually there. And started wondering what in the fucking world I was going to do now?
I felt like an absolute failure, despite being in peak physical condition thanks to pre-boot camp training. I knew Marine Corps history inside-and-out, had memorized everything I would need to learn at boot camp beforehand and quite simply, had fallen in love with the concept of becoming a United States Marine. Everything I'd envisioned myself to be -- both physically, mentally and as a man in regards to my legacy and honor -- it was all imploded within itself and destroyed once I was dumped on my doorstep with my tail between my legs. And the sad thing was, I didn't even really do anything.
Despite the fact that my family tree is littered with alcoholics and addicts and that I actually knew all this, I jumped headfirst into an even deeper love affair with whiskey and a newfound one with opiates. Other drugs tried to seduce me and I wholeheartedly let them. But opiates... they won my undying affection. And more regrettably, my full attention span. I just didn't give a fuck. The world I had thought I had known and was mine had been turned upside down and lit on fire.
More importantly, the using took away the constant feeling that I was no longer worth anything as a man. That I wasn't a colossal failure who'd never be anything or make anything of my life no matter what I decided to do with it. When I look back at this as the source of my whole descent into an addict, the fact that I was constantly barraged by Drill Instructors throughout my rapid two-week discharge period didn't really help matters. Some people say they brainwash you in boot camp and quite honestly, I think this is somewhat based in truth. I can't speak for all branches, but in the Marine Corps boot camp, they break you down to a pitiless shell of your former self and then build you back up.
Problem was, and this -- I think -- is the most important portion of the whole story, is that I was discharged directly prior to the "building back up" stage. I never was built back up. And while my former platoon mates were enjoying the process of being hardened into a refined steel of a warrior, being reborn from the hope and despair of their breakdowns, I was being further belittled, put down and basically told that I was completely and utterly worthless. That I was, indeed, the vermin on the bottom of a rock. Legit.
Even despite all this, I can't harbor much resentment. My case was a rare one and the vast majority of washed out recruits that took the path I took out of the service only do so because they went to vast extremes to get the fuck out of there. Several people I had the "honor" to be kicked out with had cut themselves multiple times, threatened suicide and even had tried to attack a Drill Instructor (he was promptly beat-the-fuck-down, and he deserved it). So despite the fact that I've come to recognize this as the seed that sprouted into me becoming an addict, I can't hold much resentment. At least not now...
The fact that I was being portrayed as one of these spineless lowlife's from the moment I learned I was being discharged until today when I tell people I was kicked out of the Marines is what hurt me the most. And unfortunately, for a long time, I was made to believe that this was all that I was. And was all that I would ever be.
I was confused as fuck and I was as sad as I'd ever been. I'd actually been the happiest I'd ever been in boot camp -- at least in the beginning. I finally felt like I belonged... and then it was gone. It was a mind-fuck of the most exponential proportions.
Whiskey, opiates -- mainly Oxy's and heroin and ultimately, that deceptive, seductive, vile, evil-ass brew known as pod tea. I'm sure many of you are intimately familiar with many of these things and in the right hands -- mainly in those of one with an iron-will, an unbreakable discipline -- they can be used responsibly. Don't get it twisted -- this isn't an anti-drugs manifesto of any sort.
Back on topic and to fast forward a bit, I used and I used hard, with it getting progressively worse each time. I no longer recognized myself anymore. I was indeed still a shell of my former self and I didn't care about anything else save for getting the fuck away from the feelings and thoughts that made me come to grips with the worst experience of my life.
Eventually, I even lost all ability to even feel minor feelings of happiness. Or rather, even minor feelings of any postive nature. Depression, anxiety, regret and hopelessness were my friends at that time and unfortunately, the only way I could put some miles between us was to use. Or to drink heavily. Or both. It was often both.
My brain wasn't right. From research I did on the topic while jammed out of my mind, all this was because I'd essentially bombed (and even confused) the shit out of my brain's endorphin production center. Essentially, it thought it could take a near-permanent vacation since I was flooding fake-endorphins (opiates) into my system all the damn time.
Arguably, the strongest benefit of methadone maintenance is that it gives your brain the necessary time to heal from long-term opiate usage. For whatever reason, the makeup of methadone doesn't effect your brain in ways that other opiate-derivative drugs do. Bupe (Suboxen or Subutex for the uninitiated) does the same thing -- to the best of my knowledge.
With that brief, scientific jaunt-tangent aside (not to mention depressing personal history breakdown), let's get into the specifics of my methadone maintenance history. And more importantly, the questions and goals I have for this thread in general.
I started methadone maintenance -- to the best of my knowledge -- in mid-April, 2010. Give or take a few days. They started me at 20mg and I went up 5mg a day until I reached 90mg on (or around) May 1st. Twas when I totally stopped feeling any withdrawal symptoms. Or that's at least what I told them. In truth, I stopped feeling withdrawal symptoms at around 50-60mg but just kept on going up because I was enjoying the (albeit very brief) high way too much. Once a junkie, always a junkie, right?
I stayed at 90mg for a month-and-a-half/two months or so before going up to 100mg. I stayed there for about three months before going up to 110mg. I stayed there about a month before finally finishing at 120mg somewhere around mid-November-ish. I stayed there until early December when they started my financial detox.
Now, I'd originally planned to come down nice and slooooooow since I've heard WAY too many horror stories about coming off of methadone maintenance. I've been making myself feel better these past few days by thinking that most of these horror stories had to do with people who had to come cold turkey off a high dose of methadone (see: jailtime, nut-house), but I don't really know. Tis a big reason why I made this thread!
-------- Short, Abbreviated Version of Post for All You Lazy Bastards Starts Here --------
Ultimately, the true purpose of this thread is two-fold:
1.) For me (or anyone else who has or may have any experience in the future) to learn and know what to expect from maximum medical allowed methadone maintenance detox (5mg a day, straight-damn-through).
2.) For me to chronicle my symptoms and experiences as I go through the withdrawal following a maximum medical allowed methadone maintenance detox and as such, for this information to be available for research and/or enlightening oneself of what it's like (see also: to help prepare oneself for potential torture).
In summary, I dropped down from 120mg of methadone after being on maintenance for more-or-less... nine months or so. 5mg a day, of which I had my last 5mg dose Friday morning -- New Year's Eve to be exact. Nice people, huh?
Feel free to offer any insight, experience (as stated earlier) and advice wherever warranted. Other related questions are also, obviously, encouraged. Hopefully this doesn't turn into some debate about whether methadone (or even bupe) is useful or beneficial or whatever. To be completely honest, I think it served its purpose. At least for me. I finally feel happy again and this past Christmas holiday was the first one in a long fucking time where I actually felt happy to simply be alive. I practically forgot that such a feeling even existed without drugs!
With that said, the purpose of this thread is to discuss and chronicle (at least for me) the effects of methadone maintenance withdrawal. Primarily in regards to the maximum allowed medical detox (5mg a day) and not a cold turkey detox. I think it's pretty common knowledge that a cold turkey, straight drop-off detox from methadone is a surefire way to experiencing the purest, most true form of torture known to man. Or at least, close to it. But yeah, if you could all please keep your personal insights, feelings and opinions on maintenance as a whole to yourself, it would be much appreciated. Muchos gracios and allegre ano nuevo! (Pretty sure that's wrong, but hey, it's pretty close, yes?)
My symptoms/experiences from the last two days will follow in consecutive posts. In the meantime (or post-time) between these posts, if anyone whose experienced what I'm talking about here, if you could tell me what I can expect in the days, weeks and months ahead, I would be exceptionally grateful. Even if it's bad news as I have a strong feeling of certainty the news, at the very least, certainly isn't going to be what would deem good. Or happy. Or joyful. Tale your pick.
Thank you in advance and I look forward to a great discussion!
)