misanthrope_md (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
misanthrope_md) wrote2009-04-03 04:38 pm
misanthrope_md) wrote2009-04-03 04:38 pm
Entry tags:
For Phedre
When House had finally returned to the hut after the blow-up with Mark and Cameron, he had done so under the presumption that he was going to be kicked out. So he was surprised to find when he got there that it was Cameron who had left. Though not all of her things were gone, there was enough missing to make it obvious that she had cleared out. He wasn’t sure whether to feel guilty that she apparently hated him enough to leave her own home to avoid him and yet still wouldn’t turn him out, or just think she was an idiot for not insisting he leave instead.
His pride was nearly enough to make him go anyway. But at this point, said pride was so pounded down that another blow seemed redundant. And considering the decision he’d just made, it was more important to him to not be (a) homeless, or (b) stuck in the clinic.
The decision was that he was going cold turkey on the heroin. Whether this was wise was debateable, but he also knew that if he tried to wean himself off of it he might lose his nerve. House was the type of person that would prefer to be near-death for two weeks than increasingly miserable for two months.
He’d thought about bringing what was left of the brick to Mark. But he didn’t want to deal with him, and moreover, he didn’t really want anyone to know what he was doing. Even though the cat was out of the bag to Cameron now, House had a feeling that Mark wouldn’t go around blabbing to everyone what House had been doing--but if he knew he was detoxing, he probably would tell someone (and probably Chase, god forbid).
But he also didn’t want the temptation. He made this decision even before he’d left the compound that day after leaving the clinic, and so he went down to the basement and grabbed some laundry detergent. Then he made his way to tree by his motorcycle were the stash was hidden. He poured the detergent into the box with the remaining heroin, then brought it back to the hut and set it on the dresser. Useless now. What a waste.
Was he sorry for what he’d done? No. Absolutely not. No matter what Mark thought about his motivations, Mark didn’t fucking understand. He’d never have done heroin if he’d had Vicodin. And he wouldn’t have if he hadn’t been in pain--at least not habitually. Mark might not believe it, might think he was just another junkie, but House knew it was true. He’d done the junkie thing, to some degree. Most of his disposable income in med school had gone up his nose. And he’d quit when he’d realized that it was affecting his performance as a doctor. If House didn’t have his intellect, he had nothing. Being able to solve a puzzle that no one else could solve was more important to him that getting high, certainly. And… it was more important than not being in pain, too.
Which was exactly why he was doing this now. Pernicious anemia. Jesus. When was the last time he’d performed a diagnostic without thinking to, oh, look in a patient’s mouth? Of course, Mark was wrong about something else, too; it wasn’t because he was high, it was because he’d already started detoxing. The thing was, the addiction was so much worse than with Vicodin that the point inevitably came where he physically couldn’t use enough of it (without guaranteeing an overdose) to keep up with his body’s demand. He’d known the day would come, the moment he’d taken the brick from Mark’s room. And he’d made the calculated decision that the months of relief would be worth the weeks of hell later. Wasn’t it Mark that was always spouting all that “no day but today” shit? He should understand that. Of course, the problem now was whether the months of relief were also worth completely alienating the few people left here who cared about him.
The bottom line was, it didn’t matter now. He’d made the decision, he’d done it, and now he’d made a decision to end it, evidenced by the detergent-heroin blob sitting on the dresser. But now that it was nearly two days in and he was alone, his decision-making months ago seemed fundamentally flawed in retrospect.
This was far worse than when he’d done it with Jack taking care of him, worse than when he’d done it with James taking care of him, and even worse than when he’d done it on his own. Because apparently heroin withdrawal was a hell of a lot worse than Vicodin withdrawal.
He could tick off the symptoms, a running list in his head, and he was experiencing all of them: watery eyes, runny nose, dilated pupils, loss of appetite, panic attacks, chills, nausea, muscle cramps, insomnia, stomach cramps, vomiting, shaking, sweating. Add to that the fact that the normal amount of pain in his leg was magnified by about five times (more like ten if you took into account the fact that it had been so much less while he'd been on the drugs), and he could barely move.
In the next 24-48 hours the symptoms would be at their peak, and after that should start to subside, to the point where he could at least make it to the compound to get some food. But in the meantime, he'd just lie here, staring at the ceiling and feeling like he wanted to die. He'd give his right nut for some methodone.
His pride was nearly enough to make him go anyway. But at this point, said pride was so pounded down that another blow seemed redundant. And considering the decision he’d just made, it was more important to him to not be (a) homeless, or (b) stuck in the clinic.
The decision was that he was going cold turkey on the heroin. Whether this was wise was debateable, but he also knew that if he tried to wean himself off of it he might lose his nerve. House was the type of person that would prefer to be near-death for two weeks than increasingly miserable for two months.
He’d thought about bringing what was left of the brick to Mark. But he didn’t want to deal with him, and moreover, he didn’t really want anyone to know what he was doing. Even though the cat was out of the bag to Cameron now, House had a feeling that Mark wouldn’t go around blabbing to everyone what House had been doing--but if he knew he was detoxing, he probably would tell someone (and probably Chase, god forbid).
But he also didn’t want the temptation. He made this decision even before he’d left the compound that day after leaving the clinic, and so he went down to the basement and grabbed some laundry detergent. Then he made his way to tree by his motorcycle were the stash was hidden. He poured the detergent into the box with the remaining heroin, then brought it back to the hut and set it on the dresser. Useless now. What a waste.
Was he sorry for what he’d done? No. Absolutely not. No matter what Mark thought about his motivations, Mark didn’t fucking understand. He’d never have done heroin if he’d had Vicodin. And he wouldn’t have if he hadn’t been in pain--at least not habitually. Mark might not believe it, might think he was just another junkie, but House knew it was true. He’d done the junkie thing, to some degree. Most of his disposable income in med school had gone up his nose. And he’d quit when he’d realized that it was affecting his performance as a doctor. If House didn’t have his intellect, he had nothing. Being able to solve a puzzle that no one else could solve was more important to him that getting high, certainly. And… it was more important than not being in pain, too.
Which was exactly why he was doing this now. Pernicious anemia. Jesus. When was the last time he’d performed a diagnostic without thinking to, oh, look in a patient’s mouth? Of course, Mark was wrong about something else, too; it wasn’t because he was high, it was because he’d already started detoxing. The thing was, the addiction was so much worse than with Vicodin that the point inevitably came where he physically couldn’t use enough of it (without guaranteeing an overdose) to keep up with his body’s demand. He’d known the day would come, the moment he’d taken the brick from Mark’s room. And he’d made the calculated decision that the months of relief would be worth the weeks of hell later. Wasn’t it Mark that was always spouting all that “no day but today” shit? He should understand that. Of course, the problem now was whether the months of relief were also worth completely alienating the few people left here who cared about him.
The bottom line was, it didn’t matter now. He’d made the decision, he’d done it, and now he’d made a decision to end it, evidenced by the detergent-heroin blob sitting on the dresser. But now that it was nearly two days in and he was alone, his decision-making months ago seemed fundamentally flawed in retrospect.
This was far worse than when he’d done it with Jack taking care of him, worse than when he’d done it with James taking care of him, and even worse than when he’d done it on his own. Because apparently heroin withdrawal was a hell of a lot worse than Vicodin withdrawal.
He could tick off the symptoms, a running list in his head, and he was experiencing all of them: watery eyes, runny nose, dilated pupils, loss of appetite, panic attacks, chills, nausea, muscle cramps, insomnia, stomach cramps, vomiting, shaking, sweating. Add to that the fact that the normal amount of pain in his leg was magnified by about five times (more like ten if you took into account the fact that it had been so much less while he'd been on the drugs), and he could barely move.
In the next 24-48 hours the symptoms would be at their peak, and after that should start to subside, to the point where he could at least make it to the compound to get some food. But in the meantime, he'd just lie here, staring at the ceiling and feeling like he wanted to die. He'd give his right nut for some methodone.