The camera watches me prick my finger, and slowly, painstakingly drip blood onto the card. Agonizingly slow, the seconds tick into minutes as I struggle to fill the circles. With every second, I feel the shame of what I did two years ago, how close I came to destruction, death, disability.

I hate this. But I do it. I have to do it for another three years.

They have my medical license. I have to do what they say, let them test my blood, spit, and piss, or I can’t practice. It’s a humiliation, like an admission that I can’t take care of myself or really be trusted.

I wear this hair shirt I’ve knit. It’s a reason to never drink, never let my guard down. It’s a reminder of what happens when I let my discipline slide, when I try and act and hang out like everyone else.

One day it’ll be over, in 2027. They’ll stop monitoring me and I won’t have to sign in on an app at 5 am every morning. I won’t have to meet with them quarterly. It’ll just be me and what I can get away with.

The consequences have been drilled in my head so hard that I don’t think I’ll touch anything ever again. If it’s there, I’ll use it. It’ll disappear faster and faster. I’ll stay in my head longer.

Whatever benefits I’ll think I’ll get will be illusory. What I need when I’m stressed is rest and quiet, not depressants and dissociatives. It’s good for me to be monitored. I need to work. That’s my sine qua non. Without an income and a profession, everything else falls apart.