It wasn't the crippling constipation in the end.
I wonder, when people say they're 'shitting bricks', if they really know how it feels to shit a brick?
And it wasn't the dry mouth or the sweating; nor the confusion, the restlessness, the drowsiness or lack of libido.
It wasn't the feeling of vulnerability or the inability to leave the house.
It wasn't the fact that I couldn't be arsed doing anything.
And it wasn't even the hallucinations and the voices.
(I quite liked them).
It was the permanent ear-worm, during daylight hours, AND during sleep.
Lurking in my mind.
Apparent in my humming and in my whistle.
The soundtrack to my dreams.
At first it was 'Mistletoe and Wine'.
Then came 'Merry Xmas Everybody'.
Over and over.
Like a shitty Christmas jukebox stuck on repeat.
A Now That's What I Call Xmas CD on shuffle.
A commercial radio station in November, with a suicidally depressed DJ, working out his pension.
When I joined the Parade of the Wooden Soldiers on Phil Spector's 'A Christmas Gift For You', I knew it was time to ditch the smack.
My head felt like it was about to implode.
I was marching to the beat of a thousand existential crises.
I hate the Yuletide period with a passion anyway; I make no secret of it.
I'm the Grinch of Generation X.
But this was enough to make even the most sentimental of supermarket managers kick over his pallet of Quality Street tins.
I've put the remaining morphine in the fridge for now.
I know it's there if I ever need to hasten 'the End'.
It's incredibly effective at suppressing physical pain.
But I'm not ready to go yet.
Not if it means holding hands with Cliff and Noddy Holder.
I'd rather live in misery and discomfort.
Where's that bleach?