Tag Archives: Benzo Addiction

Drowning by Mouse

Woke up to a flooded basement (only a little), and a head that feels like it’s in a vice-grip. I have taken half a Benadryl, Alka-Seltzer and Flonase with only marginal relief.

Not matter what’s happening or how shitty I feel, my personal summer goal is to swim every single day.

And, it only counts if I get my head wet. Duh, everybody knows that.

Don’t they?

Went to the gym and for a dunk even the asshole mouse floating past, more like sunken did not stop me.

It would have thwarted my goal day three, if I had seen it. I might have passed out.

Can you pass out in water? Huh, I’ll have to google that.

Mouse??? I DON’T DO MICE. Let me be clear, reiterate, I DO NOT DO MICE.

“MOOOOM!!!!” 

I’ll spare you the yuck factor and unpleasant bloated, furry black pink tail imagery. Squeak. Eek.

Yeah, no. I will not go down that easy.

Drowning by mouse.

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“Give me any label you want to help…” #endthestigma #mentalhealth

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“This first Friday in June, all I know is I am doing my best. My very damnedest. And it looks like this…”

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I felt like this today.

You don’t need to hear about the numbness, excruciating pain, overwhelming anxiety, residual anxiety, paranoia, dizziness  or that I prayed to whomever was listening to just end it. Fucking end the ridiculous, relentless, ad nauseam, non-sensical hours that consume my days. Frankly it’s wearing me down, ripping me to shreds and fucking exhausting fighting invisible monsters.

Yes, I know I’m sick. Yes, I understand tapering off benzos is worse than hell it’s maggot filled shit. Yes, my empathetic, cool therapist talks it out. Reassuring me I am indeed strong enough.

Resilient enough. Tough enough. However. Makes me wonder.

Where in the hell am I going to replenish precious missing elements when the planet is currently fluctuating between earthquakes, tornadoes and drought? In a constant state of chaos, flux. How to replenish when I can’t remember pieces of yesterday. Blurred and hazed memories clog and pollute the brain.

Where? How? Why? Great questions. With zero answers.

I said NO anyway. For shits and giggles, ya’ know.

I don’t feel like shit, I feel eradicated, violated and obliterated.

I go to the hairdresser’s armed with my peppermint and lavender doused washcloth unsure I can make it through the hour-long dye process without flipping the fuck out.

Home. I want, need, have a deep desire to be home.

Grey roots and I have a larger more burning desire to feel pretty, alive, and validated.

Breathe, just breathe. You are safe. You are fine. You’ve been through this before. You are safe, breathe.

Your stylist is your dear friend who knows and loves you well she will take you home if necessary.

FUCK YOU anxiety, fuck off, go fuck up someone else’s day/ existence.

It’s sitting there threatening strangling my neck, throat, cramped shoulders, tingling extremities and limbs. Sitting patient, greedily waiting to pounce.

I apply eyeliner (Armani #02 pencil my fav.) and concealer to brighten my shiteous, difficult existence and in spite.

Tomorrow will come with or without me, isn’t that the cliché? What they say? Whoever the hell they are, Martians maybe. Fuck if I know, can’t be sure.

This first Friday in June, all I know is I am doing my best.

My very damnedest.

And it looks like this… on the outside

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“You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view… Until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it.” – Harper Lee

COME ON GOD, Buddha, anybody?

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Manic Depression, Benzo Taper Withdrawals, Fatty Liver Diet and oh yeah, there’s THAT (see below).

Did I miss anything? I think I’m going to cocoon in bed with baby pillow and watch a movie.

Preferably something ‘light.’

COME ON, GOD, BUDDHA whoever the fuck is out there listening.
“Agoraphobia is often, but not always, compounded by a fear of social embarrassment, as the agoraphobic fears the onset of a panic attack and appearing distraught in public. This is also sometimes called ‘social agoraphobia’ which may be a type of social anxiety disorder also sometimes called “social phobia”.”

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#EndTheStigma.

Take Me To Church

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My therapist Friday, “you’re an addict. You’re in recovery (say what?).

I don’t care how you got there, or which doctor gave you the pills. There are no healing shortcuts, no way around, over or under it. You have to plow straight through.” I looked up the twelve steps. Can my shrink please put me in a medically induced coma and wake me up when it’s over (approx. 2-3 years from now). On a beach, frozen margarita in hand. (to clarify, I’m just crazy and allowed one drink after the benzo detox.) ??? Step. # 1 yeah, yeah…

Recovery hurts. Recovery is not funny. Not funny, ha, ha, ha at all.

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It’s all in your purple velour pants.

Body temperature. 95 degrees. Chills. Muscle aches. Blurred vision. A sampling of the shiteous Benzo taper tsunami symptoms that are my current mood.

I ask my mom if I have a seizure will she take me to the hospital? “Probably not.”

Frothing and foaming at the mouth in fetal position?  “Nope.” This is not her first carnival ride of crazy.

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Please excuse me while I go dunk my head in a snow bank to cool off and dig out  reserves of courage, strength and resolve.

No one made you lose your mind, take the pills, Xanax, Valium and those were the ‘light’ drugs.

Um, yeah they did. Three different psychiatrists wrote the scripts, upped the dose while my brain slowly dissolved into a puddle of paranoia, anxiety and lost memory. Drip, drip, drip…

It’s all in your mind. Oh, really?

Excuse me while I educate myself and be my best-shot advocate because I choose to believe in the intangible, inexplicable mysterious workings of the mind.

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And when I don’t, when I can’t, when I am consumed, gone, off somewhere I can’t comprehend there are those who remind me, calling me back. Come home, fight.

The untapped ninety percent possiblity.

Read Up. I won’t make fun of your purple, velvet pants if you don’t judge mine.

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We’re all blood, neurons, bones, mind and heart trying to find our way home.

Carry on…

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http://www.bostonglobe.com/lifestyle/health-wellness/2014/09/07/when-withdrawal-hardest-part/nyWtjexiyOWSpU1TkloVnK/story.html

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and when all else fails…

Knock Three Times

this old clock
this old clock

When I’m stressed, I clean. When I’m confused, I clean. When I’m angry, I clean. Exhausted, nauseated, in full-blown Benzo withdrawal. Not permitted by my shrinks to travel, basically I’m assigned to the nut house. Only, this house arrest comes with a ton of perks, comfortable amenities. Yeah, you could this house is pretty clean. Benzo withdrawal is worse than heroine. You could say, that, yes could.

Just when I think I can’t take one more day of the absurdity that has become my existence, apparently I can. I blame the doctors in part, the shrinks, quacks, they don’t a clue what might work, and what won’t. Mental Illness meds that could very well kill you, they’re so quick to write a script. Well, that one didn’t work, let’s try this on top of that. Pretty soon, your brain is a full on pileup of conflicting signals, no wonder it’s lost without a roadmap. My beautiful mind, gets more and more tangled, lost inside forgotten memory, drooping eyelid, psychosomatic illness, blindness, hallucinations. They’ve really fuked you now, you have no choice but to go nuts. There’s no winding the hands back on the clock.

Me, I’m the anomaly. The med-resistant patient, the BiPolar opposite. I hate the drugs. Muscle rigor, swollen tongue, numbness, vertigo, ringing ears, eye paralysis, what’s next? Fuk off, you can keep your pink, white and yellow pills, in various doses of madness. When I can’t fight anymore, when I can’t find the will, I will look to the clock. With what’s left of my shredded dignity, faith, courage and hope, I’ll simply go, on my time. My brain, I’m donating to science.

I received ‘the phone call’, email. The sad news we dread, three times in one week. Each ring, every broken heart, gave me strength to fight the personal pain, fear and sorrow. Empathy takes over in tragedy, gratitude settles in. One loss hit hard, knocked the wind out. The loss of a child. I would’ve gladly given away some of my time, to his mother. I have lived so much beautiful, loved so deeply and laughed so loud, freely. Time doesn’t work like that, the hands do not stop. I will fight for her, silently, the unbearable loss. In honor of mother and child I will live, because that’s all I can do. I offer prayer, for the loved ones who’ve gone missing. Maybe they’re not missing at all, maybe they returned home. To an ethereal world where there is no pain, no disease, filled with Technicolor dreams, and Opal crystalline riches. Enough for us all. Home to an impeccably clean house, with five-star amenities and perks, and no sorrow.

GEORGIA PINE.
GEORGIA PINE.

Time tells me I’m here, for a reason. For now.  Until I’m not.

And that is, just fine by me.