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I Will Never Be A Junkie

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Once upon a time, in a land not so far away, a beautiful (pretty on good days depending on the state of her hair) maiden sat in her commode agonizing about what awaited her.

Glaring back at her in cold sharpness was her future.  She knew what had to be done and it would require great courage, speed, and precision.  She was ready; the moment had come.

The sword came to her skin and her eyes narrowed.  Be brave, she silently mouthed to herself, it will all be over soon.

Everything went black.


 

Well, that’s basically how it all went down.

During a trip to LA earlier this summer (stay tuned for my upcoming CA post) my functional MD recommended weekly B12 injections for a variety of reasons.  At the same time, she asked me if I would have a problem giving myself the injections.  “Of course not, no big deal,” I quickly told her, as I have never had an issue with needles or getting shots.

As they require refrigeration, the pre-filled syringes were neatly wrapped in a bubble wrap package, which I promptly put on the top shelf next to some standard food items.  Butter.  Sparkling water.  Syringes.  My icebox was suddenly legit with gritty coolness.

I decided I was going to do the injections on Sunday, just in case I had any adverse reactions.  In the days leading up to my first injection, I did my due diligence and watched multiple YouTube videos demonstrating how to properly inject yourself.  Again, I thought to myself, no big deal, what’s all the fuss about?

D-day arrived in a flash and I was pumped with anticipation and the knowledge that I would soon be in the cool kids club of self-injection power.  After this, who knows what I could accomplish?!  I would be limitless à la Bradley Cooper.

Dutifully following my handy-dandy YouTube tutorials, I confidentially went into the bathroom and prepped the area (my thigh) by thoroughly cleaning it with rubbing alcohol and pinpointing my target area.  Done.

The syringe, which I had removed from the fridge about twenty minutes prior in order for it to come to room temperature, was sitting on the counter with the safety cap still on.

I was ready.

I slowly removed the friendly looking translucent blue safety cap covering the needle.  I wish I had a photo of my face at this moment.

There was nothing friendly looking about this one-inch sword of pain.  Holy shit, this whole needle has to go into my leg?  Do I even have an inch of muscle for it to sink into?

I took a deep breath and put the safety cap back on.  At this point I figured that I probably needed to clean the area again.  I was avoiding the matter at hand.  Maybe if I cleaned my thigh several more times the needle would not look as frightening.  After the fifth cleaning and a serious case of the woozies – from the copious amounts of rubbing alcohol – I was ready…again.

Dammit, the needle somehow looked even longer and more forbidding.  Another deep breath.  With the cap off, I carefully put the needle up to my squeaky clean thigh.  Whoa, this thing is sharp (duh).

Deep breath.  Pause.

Then, the tears came.

“This cannot be happening,” I weepily told myself, “I have never been afraid of needles.”  I caved.

I tiptoed out of the bathroom in my robe and admitted defeat to my significant other, James, who was sitting on the couch.

“I need you to give me the shot in my arm.”

We then went through the process again.  The cleaning, the torture, more tears were shed on my part.  WTF.

After me pulling away multiple times just mere seconds before he plunged the needle into my arm, it happened.  Virtually painless, just like all the other shots I have received and blood I have given.

We did it.  He did it.  He is my Prince Charming of this sadistic fairytale.

So, thank you, James, for helping me to realize that I will never, ever be a junkie.

 

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