by Penelope Trunk
If you ask the Farmer, he would tell you that I was really really nice to him last week while he was in bed, immobile, strung out on six Percocet a day. I made him pies, and French toast, and meat at every meal because there is no amount of Percocet that would make him not want to eat meat.
I watched gunslinger movies with him when he was groggy and I made sure to talk only about innocuous topics like the state of world politics, something that we’d never fight about.
I can’t tell you everything went smoothly. I forgot to let the chickens out a few days. I lost the new bag of Cat Chow and served ground beef for two days of heaven on earth for the cats. And, there were a few times the goats got into the house. But we figured out how to handle everything.
Until the Farmer felt better: His back didn’t hurt so he wanted to work. So, he just stopped taking the Percocet. Cold turkey. And because we live in the country, the doctor gave the Farmer sixty Percocet pills with no instructions for how to go off narcotics.
For those of you who know nothing about Percocet, first of all, if you ever get that many pills prescribed, sell them on the streets of New York City to fund your child’s education. That’s how hard they are to come by.
And there’s a reason: They are highly addictive. I’m linking to some stuff about getting off high dosages of Percocet, but I’m summarizing: You can’t go cold turkey. You have to go slowly or you make yourself crazy.
So the Farmer was crazy and I had to have a drug intervention to tell him he was a total jerk and having withdrawal and he couldn’t tell and he needed to do it more systematically.
I convinced him. But he is not a guy who lays in bed all day. And he had already done it for five days. He wanted to work. On Percocet. I told him we agreed no machinery on Percocet. He told me how it’s not fair that I want him to taper and I want him to not work.
Then we have a screaming match about how life is not fair. That is the first topic. Which slides into:
Me: Don’t scream at me—
The Farmer: No you’re screaming at me—
No. Fuck you.
I told you I don’t like swearing.
I told you I don’t like you being mean.
This did not happen. I mean it did. It has happened so many times that it’s like the bass beat in the background of our everyday life.
So we did that and then he told me he had to work. It was a work emergency.
Here’s what he said: “I have to check cows.”
You might think I know nothing about farming, but I have actually learned a lot precisely for figuring out if the Farmer is BSing me or not.
Me: Your dad can check them.
The Farmer: I don’t want to call him. It’s a masculinity thing.
I swear to God. He said this.
Read more:
If you ask the Farmer, he would tell you that I was really really nice to him last week while he was in bed, immobile, strung out on six Percocet a day. I made him pies, and French toast, and meat at every meal because there is no amount of Percocet that would make him not want to eat meat.
I watched gunslinger movies with him when he was groggy and I made sure to talk only about innocuous topics like the state of world politics, something that we’d never fight about.
I can’t tell you everything went smoothly. I forgot to let the chickens out a few days. I lost the new bag of Cat Chow and served ground beef for two days of heaven on earth for the cats. And, there were a few times the goats got into the house. But we figured out how to handle everything.
Until the Farmer felt better: His back didn’t hurt so he wanted to work. So, he just stopped taking the Percocet. Cold turkey. And because we live in the country, the doctor gave the Farmer sixty Percocet pills with no instructions for how to go off narcotics.
For those of you who know nothing about Percocet, first of all, if you ever get that many pills prescribed, sell them on the streets of New York City to fund your child’s education. That’s how hard they are to come by.
And there’s a reason: They are highly addictive. I’m linking to some stuff about getting off high dosages of Percocet, but I’m summarizing: You can’t go cold turkey. You have to go slowly or you make yourself crazy.
So the Farmer was crazy and I had to have a drug intervention to tell him he was a total jerk and having withdrawal and he couldn’t tell and he needed to do it more systematically.
I convinced him. But he is not a guy who lays in bed all day. And he had already done it for five days. He wanted to work. On Percocet. I told him we agreed no machinery on Percocet. He told me how it’s not fair that I want him to taper and I want him to not work.
Then we have a screaming match about how life is not fair. That is the first topic. Which slides into:
Me: Don’t scream at me—
The Farmer: No you’re screaming at me—
No. Fuck you.
I told you I don’t like swearing.
I told you I don’t like you being mean.
This did not happen. I mean it did. It has happened so many times that it’s like the bass beat in the background of our everyday life.
So we did that and then he told me he had to work. It was a work emergency.
Here’s what he said: “I have to check cows.”
You might think I know nothing about farming, but I have actually learned a lot precisely for figuring out if the Farmer is BSing me or not.
Me: Your dad can check them.
The Farmer: I don’t want to call him. It’s a masculinity thing.
I swear to God. He said this.
Read more:
