Free Guts: The Endless Follies and Tiny Triumphs of a Giant Disaster by Kristen Johnston Page B

front teeth. You lie to your weeping mother even though He’s convinced you to steal the painkillers she actually needs. You will die protecting Him, no matter what.
    Because no one will ever, ever love you as much as He does.
    I’ll never forget the first time I met Him. It was about fifteen years ago in Los Angeles, and I was deep in the throes of navigating the truly terrifying waters of overnight fame. I was also suffering my first-ever migraine. (Real, by the way. The fake ones came later.) My boyfriend at the time took me to the emergency room of Cedars-Sinai, and about two minutes after the nurse injected Him (in this case, He was morphine) into my ass, I distinctly remember saying to myself, Holy shit , this is the answer!
    Suddenly, the closet walls fell away and I wasn’t depressed or anxious for the first time in years. I can’t begin to express the vast sensation of relief that coursed through me. I felt good and confident and at peace. I was me , only much, much better. I even signed autographs and posed for pictures on the way out, much to the amusement of my boyfriend. Go ahead and laugh it up, buddy. ’Cause my heart no longer belongs to you.
    Of course, like any good love story, it took many years for us to finally give in and admit our feelings for each other. I kept Him at bay for as long as I could. But He was so persistent. We’d see each other, break up, then I’d give in again, then dump Him. His given name was Opiate, but He went by many aliases. (Which should have been my first red flag.) I didn’t care what name He went by, I’d have known Him anywhere. He was known as Codeine, Heroin, Fioricet with Codeine, Vicodin, Hydro-codone, Hycodan, Darvocet, Percocet, and my personal favorite, Morphine, to name just a few. I adored them all, but I must say I’m exceedingly grateful I never ingested either Heroin (a powerful derivative of the opiate), or his rascally, good-for-nothing cousin OxyContin. Because I know with absolute certainty that, if I had, I’d be deader than a doornail. Doorknob? Whatever, I’d be dead.
    All opiates, also known as painkillers, are derived from opium, which is extracted from the seeds of the poppy flower. Scientists have created imitators, but I’ve never been a fan. It’s kind of like your boyfriend being suddenly replaced by a robotic replica. (You know, it just occurred to me that when Dorothy was surrounded by all those poppy flowers, she wasn’t forced to fall asleep, she simply had a good, old-fashioned heroin nod. See? I knew there was a reason I always liked that witch!)
    Back to my point. I’ve talked to many people about painkillers, both drug addicts and the knitting/love/work addicted. This is a purely unscientific study, but I’ve discovered that drug addicts and the knitters have completely different experiences when they take painkillers. Almost all of the knitters said they had pretty much the same experience. The drugs made them feel kind of nice for a bit and helped relieve their pain, but they mostly just experienced itchy skin, constipation, and nausea. Most of them said that they were happy and relieved to stop taking the pills. A few admitted they liked to save one or two to have later with margaritas and I knew I’d be seeing them in a church basement at some point in the next few years. But have fun, “knitter.”
    Now, the reaction of the drug addict’s brain is just slightly different. It goes a little something like Yes! Yes! Thank you!!!! This is what I’ve been waiting for all these years. I finally feel normal , I finally feel happy ! MORE MORE MORE MORE MORE MORE . . .
    And that’s what makes me suspect that addiction might just have a little something to do with people’s different brain chemistries. The addicts instantaneously and utterly lose their fucking minds, and I can say from experience that their minds aren’t exactly in a hurry to be found. These people suddenly become just like that guy in your neighborhood who