As my body melted during the debilitating summer heat this week, I was reminded of similar moments I experienced only a few months ago. I had a habit that caused a warm sluggish hug from the inside out. Time was but a measurement, and I could disappear inside myself. These were the moments during the six months that I took painkillers.

It all started when my roommate had his jaw intentionally broken. He had worn braces for two years, and as his reward, a surgeon laser-cut and repositioned his mouth. They prescribed him a liquid form of the painkiller oxycontin (although the official name was some generic derivative). The pharmacist warned him that it was a powerful narcotic and should only be used as directed. After his jaw was snapped and his face swelled, he took a couple doses and decided that the painkiller only made him more tired than he already was. The little bottle (which contained over 100 doses) sat dormant for a couple weeks.

I'm a man who detests waste and kindly asked my roommate if I might help him finish the bottle. He gave me full access. After a handful of attempts, I figured out how to maximize the effect. I would put a few drops into some juice and drink it down. The stomach would twist slightly, not exactly sure what to do with the concoction. An hour later, I would feel my insides buzz with pleasure. Against the recommendations of the bottle, I would drink a beer or take a couple tokes off the bong. This kicked the painkiller into high gear. My body was enveloped by the warm hug, and all the problems of the world suddenly seemed silly.

Somewhere along the way, I developed a pre-game routine. Since I had an hour after consuming the painkiller, I began reading books out loud for an hour. I started with some Bukowski poetry books. After completing those, I picked up On The Road. To the shock and surprise of people who know me, I had never read Kerouac's simple masterpiece. As I told the tales of Dean Moriarity and Sal Paradise to myself, the painkillers would kick in. When I felt too abstract to continue the story, I'd put the book down, pop on some music and drift into the warm hug.

I'd think up stories and plot lines, I'd sway and drift, I'd watch three hour movies, I'd solve the complex dilemmas, I'd do nothing at all.

This was all on the recommended dosage. The main danger with any controlled substance (legal or not) comes when people exceed what is suggested. The peak of my painkiller journeys would last fifteen to thirty minutes, and the trip would last two to three hours. During those moments, everything was fine. No worries. But then came the come down. I could feel when the roller coaster began to slide off the top, and I had to make a conscious decision not to keep grasping for more hugs. I constantly had to tell myself "Come down. Return to sober reality. Don't whine. Show some discipline."

This went on for about six months. Sometimes I would take the painkiller three times a week, and sometimes none at all. If I did it too much, it would just knock me out. My last dose was about three months ago, and I remember lying on the couch, too gone to keep my eyes open. A Cubs game was on the TV nearby, but it seemed so far away. I embraced my last full-on hug from my narcotic buddy.

Once the bottle was empty, I never looked back. The moments were nice, On the Road was a great read, and it was comforting to get affection without dealing with another complicated soul. But there were downsides. Hours after dosing, I would still drift off and forget simple memories. Everyone seemed to be a few feet farther away than they were, and I was either overly sympathetic to other people's plights or completely indifferent.

I keep hearing about the painkiller epidemic from the media, and I know why there are a bunch of people quick to hustle for some time release capsules to scrape and eat. They want an easy way to kill the pain that comes in all shapes and sizes. Of course, using painkillers kills one type of pain and brings on another. All so you can fall back and forget the pain that never really goes away.

Be forewarned. This stuff can hook you. If there was any in the house right now, I'd be thumbing through my library to see what novel looks good to read out loud to myself.

Chris Jungle is back to seeking warm hugs from the human race.