I am tired of thinking about addiction. I am tired of thinking about my husband and heroin. I am tired of doing things like finding the following list of links demonstrating that my husband's cellulitis in his hand is heroin-related: this one, this one, this one, this one, this one, this one, this one, this one, this one, this one, this one, this one, this one, this one, this one, this one, and this one.
I wonder if keeping this blog is actually not helping me, but making me more and more obsessed. I like to know things. I like to be well-informed. If I go to a doctor and get a diagnosis, I always go home and research what is wrong with me. I research all the medications, their side effects, and monitor myslf carefully to see if anything is going wrong. When I used to use a lot of drugs myself, I'd always do research on them before trying something new.
I like to know things.
It's useless, though, if the effects of this endless acquisition of information only frustrates me more in an already frustrating situation. If he won't believe that his hand is sick because of using, there is really no point in me knowing that's what's going on. It just makes me angry, futile and angry and impotent and stupid, like I always am lately.
I don't want to be angry with him right now. He's in a lot of pain.
He's not answering his phone. I wonder if he's at home, snorting all the vicodin. I wonder if I should go home and check on him. I wish he'd answer the fucking phone.