When Pain Meds Turn You Into Shakespeare’s Drunk Cousin

 

Well… my drugged-up arse has officially betrayed me.

 

Morphine + oxycodone + naproxen =

me transforming into a poet, a confessor, and a complete idiot at 2am.

 

Because in that warm, floaty, pain-free bubble, when everything feels a bit softer and quieter, my brain decided to pick up my phone and text him.

Yes. Ryan.

 

And what did I send?

 

A full, emotional manifesto dripping in honesty, horn, fear, vulnerability and unfiltered chemo-brain chaos. I basically handed him my heart, my vagina, and my existential crisis all wrapped up in one message.

 

I told him:

 

I can’t lose him.

 

I don’t love him, but the feelings are there (chemo-brain version of “oops”).

 

I miss the sex.

 

I’d happily continue said sex.

 

I’m terrified he doesn’t want me.

 

And if he doesn’t reply, I’ll leave him alone forever.

 

 

Like… who says that sober?

Never mind high on enough meds to sedate a horse.

 

And now, here I am, lying in bed feeling like my bones have been replaced with broken glass, staring at a phone that’s quieter than a nun at a funeral, fully convinced I’ve just lost the one person who made me feel human again for five minutes.

 

I didn’t mean to dump that on him.

I didn’t mean to scare him.

I didn’t mean to make myself look desperate or clingy or “please love me I’m dying.”

 

I just…

I’m hurting. Everywhere.

My head. My chest. My heart.

And when you’re sick and terrified and alone at 2am, the truth leaks out of you — especially when you’re floating on morphine clouds.

 

Now I’m sat here thinking:

 

He’s not going to reply.

And if he doesn’t…

I’ve lost him.

 

And that breaks me more than the cancer does tonight.

 

Because he mattered.

More than I ever said out loud.

More than I probably should have let him.

 

So yeah.

My drugged-up, over-honest, emotionally chaotic self fucked me over.

 

And I don’t know how to fix it.

 

I just know I’m going to miss him.

 

And ill let stefan read this