Tag Archives: Benzo Recovery

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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“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

That’s the thing about boundaries

“I’m sorry.”

This may be the most overrated, overused phrase in my catch-all, go to, spit it out library. Most times I don’t really mean it, “I’m sorry” is the quickest way around, under, over and out of an uncomfortable situation.

Boundaries, now there’s a swash and spit mouthful. A word worthy of top shelf book space. I don’t pull it out often enough. Managing the days with a serious mental illness (it’s high-tide time I accept it) boundaries should have an entire section in Webster’s. Not really but damn it well should.

There are the managements, physical ick-awful pain, aches, nauseous, brain burning exhaustion. The clenched jaw, neck so tight you’re unaware until you grab a stick of gum to quash the anxiety and each chew hurts. It’s worse than the worst flu delirium and yet there I go again, apologizing. “I’m sorry for not taking the laundry down, I’m sorry for needing a minute, an hour, whatever to wait out the hot flashes, chills, blurry eyes that are clouding my fucking vision. I’m sorry I cannot think straight with the incessant ringing in my ears, head spinning from the constant whir. I’m sorry I can’t remember what I was thinking two seconds ago, or which of the million thoughts swirling around I’m going to shut out, or which I’m going try and  focus on.

I’m sorry this is my fucking, miserable reality. It’s not exactly what I’d hoped either.

I’m sorry you think I don’t care, or am not listening. I’m sorry you think I don’t care, or am not listening.

For that, I am truly sorry. I am listening behind the white noise and I do care about what you’re saying. I care about what you said two days ago, that I am just now processing.

See, how that goes. I’m sorry. I am the first to understand empathy is the wasted, throw away emotion. There are better, far healthier choices, words to choose.

So I’m going to try hard, as if I don’t try every single solitary second so you get my exhaustive, over-exaggerated, moot point.

Boundaries. I’m going to incorporate that word into my repertoire, get used to hearing the way it sounds.

No. I can’t.10246632_10202265395809057_1936156732_n

I’ll let you know when I am able.

Polite, and to the point.

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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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and when all else fails…

shhhh, my brain is healing

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Benzo withdrawal and the excruciating road to recovery is well worse than the lowest, hottest depths of hell.

Actually if there was a hell, I’d probably choose to go there.

Okay, I understand prescribing a XaniBar for a short time because it is necessary to quash

the extreme anxiety tentacles vice gripping the brain.

I am Manic Depressive (not BiPolar, I despise the modernized, sensationalized term).

I understand that my illness is precarious, and all the uncertainty that is attached.

I understand that Lithium, the ‘gold standard’ drug is my best bet to stay alive.

I take it faithfully, like a daily chore you do not because you like it but simply because it’s part of your routine.

Everyday for the last 13 years I swallow my pride.

I’m not sure when Xanax became the necessity, after a traumatic event, suicidal tendencies, or the full-blown psychotic breakdown.

Does it even matter? I needed it to survive. Trouble is, it wasn’t enough. I needed more, to raise the dose to function, get through the day without doing something drastic.

I admit it, suicide is never far from my broken, tortured, chaotic mind. I am not sure why I’m still here, it’s a crapshoot.

Back to the Benzos.

How could I know back then what Benzo addiction and eventual withdrawal would do to my already damaged mind?

I am an addict. Not by choice, not by my hands.

I have lost a year or more (who’s counting) clawing my way out, chills, hallucinations, tremors, blurred vision, extreme temperature fluctuations, 94 degrees is a scary place to be trapped inside, nausea, headaches, dizziness, muscle aches, pain I have never experienced. Seasick waves, hyper sensitivity.

If you touch me I might punch you out.

I am at the benzo taper half-mark. I’ve missed so much. Trips to Cali, the beach, NY, hell just being present. Some days a trip to the nature trail with the dog is a huge accomplishment.

I am resilient. I am determined. I am not afraid to admit I’m paralyzed by fear. I blame the doctors, God, whomever is in close proximity. There is no blame, really. Bad shit happens.

I fill my arsenal with things that help with my recovery. Essential oils, strict diet, exercise, epsom salt baths, writing, watching movies, my dog. I try hard not to beat myself up. Rest, when necessary.

If your doctor writes a script for Xanax to ‘take the edge off,’ tell him to shove it and go for a walk, seek alternative treatment, try if you can to SPRINT in the other direction. If you can.

My brain is himages-1ealing. I catch a glimpse of my old, new and improved self. GABA is my new favorite word.

To everyone out there fighting, dealing with impossible challenges, breathe in 7 seconds and then breathe out 10.

Do it, again and again until your skin doesn’t crawl.

Educate yourself.

And if you meet someone who’s a little off-color, be kind.

You don’t know what hoops they’re jumping through.

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Benzo Withdrawal LINKS:

http://www.psychmedaware.org/recovery_tips.html

http://benzowithdrawalhelp.com

http://www.benzobuddies.org