![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Tingles turn shaky as consciousness drifts with corruption. Sweet comforts turn sour.
Yesterday, about a half an hour before I was due for another round of meds, I realized that I was experiencing withdrawal symptoms. I was dizzy, trembling, and nauseous. That was the turning point. Scales had tipped: side effects outweighed the benefits. As of today, I decided I needed no more Vicodin in my system.
I'm still shaky, my stomach is still tremulous. I both am and am not dizzy. My head is filled with a fog that is neither gentle nor reassuring. Reality is here, and I am slowly reintegrating into it.
Perhaps this is why I'm not afraid of addiction. I'd rather cross the wasteland of withdrawal than follow the spiral of increasing dosages. The scales tip and my choice becomes clear.
This is one place where I have less in common with my father. He'd wake up in this half world, and seek the drink to take him back. The pull of unreality was always stronger to him than the promise of vivid life on the far side of withdrawal. I live most of my life in the throes of acute sensation, of reality in all its colors and textures. Life is pain. Anyone who says differently is selling something.
