Drop the Crutch
Disclaimer 1: I own nothing related to House, nor have I ever, nor will I ever. The text referred to about substance abuse is from the book Why am I Afraid to Tell You Who I Am? By John Powell
A/N: This takes place post "No Reason." This fic assumes that House receives the ketamine treatement and all goes well.
A/N 2: This is the first House fic I've ever posted! I really hope you enjoy, and leave a review, even if its just to say hello!
House's POV
Books say that people use drinking or drug use as a "crutch" to mask severe self-consciousness. This said "crutch" is for "sociability, self-expression, the concealment of embarrassment, and the possibility of forgetting one's troubles."
To quote the text exactly, "…further sedation is needed to deaden anxiety, the sense of guilt and depression. Drinking and dope as a 'way out' are definitely limited in their capacity to do the job. Leaving reality, while the narcosis lasts, only makes it more difficult to return to reality and live with it."
Well, the narcosis is certainly over. My thoughts aren't blurred or distorted by the "Vicodin fog," as I liked to call it. When I wake up in the morning, my muscles aren't bogged down with lethargy, and nothing more than a dull, constant ache radiates from my thigh.
It sucks, but it's for the best. I can just feel my liver regenerating.
Not really, but Wilson laughed when I mentioned that.
Drinking and drugs may have been my crutch, but pain was my excuse. Granted, it's a crappy excuse, but it was all I had. If drinking and drugs was my crutch, then the cane must have been my security blanket.
I stare at it resting dormant against my dresser. I haven't used my old buddy to get around the apartment in almost a month, but longest I've gone without it in the outside world was a trip to the grocery store. I had the shopping cart to lean on.
I don't want it, but I need it. I don't physically need it right now, but what if I do later? It's a long day. I'd be pissed if I fell in front of anybody. I hate falling in general, but I guess that's not the kind of thing anybody really enjoys.
8:35. Wilson will be here in ten minutes to pick me up and I'm not wearing any pants.
I'm thinking I'll wear a suit today. That'll really freak everybody out. Shock value, you know?
I hate relying on Wilson to pick me up. He's always so damn early. Or on time. Whatever.
It's just until I pick up the new car. I got rid of the bike and the Corvette. This new car is much better. The motorcycle and the car were midlife crisis vehicles. I'm not having a midlife crisis, nor am I having an identity crisis or anything of the crisis sort. I opted for a navy blue Honda.
I had a Honda before the infarction, and this is after the infarction. The part of my life dominated by the leg is officially over.
I hope it is, anyway. I wouldn't mind a little confidence shot-or pill- right this second.
It's going to take a while getting accustomed to all my thoughts rushing around at the same time. I've been sedating myself with drugs, alcohol, women-whatever felt good-since I'm a teenager. Vicodin forced me to search my brain for the information I needed; now the information just flows in unnecessary streams through my head.
Maybe I'll claim I have adult ADD. Get me some of that grown-up Ritalin.
And then I would be popping Ritalin like candy. Sometimes I find my own predictability stifling.
Wilson's knocking at my door. I am showered, shaven, wearing pressed clothing, and a pair of loafers.
Brand new, brown, leather…loafers.
I actually look normal. Maybe normal isn't the right word; I actually look healthy.
I pause on my way out of the bedroom and grab my cane.
I move through my apartment, unaided, to stop Wilson from that incessant knocking.
"I've been at your door for nearly two minutes! C'mon already!" Wilson whined.
"One more second, okay? Give the ex-cripple a chance," I told him.
There was one quick thing I had to do before leaving for work. I rushed into my bedroom and chucked the cane into the closet.
I didn't need that crutch anymore, either.
end