My Benzo Story

It all started innocently enough.  I found myself, after a 20 year executive career, highly anxious and sometimes depressed.  I had trouble talking to large audiences and felt I needed something to help.

My doctor prescribed Xanax and Klonopin.  At first, it was remarkable.  With a dose of benzos, I was calm and collected during my speeches.  I felt strong and self confident.  I felt as though the “old me” was back.

My dependence on benzodiazepines increased over the years.  I found myself taking more and more.  At one point, I was up to 6 mg a day – using them before speeches and during the day. My psychiatrist was all too happy to keep prescribing them.  When I asked whether I was taking too much, he said “oh, you’re on baby doses.  I have patients that are taking much more.”  Relieved at this point, I continued my journey to hard core benzo addiction.

My wife observed me and let me know that I had a problem.  She said that she would support me if I would only get off the drugs.  She said that I was listless and unresponsive to anything. I decided to go cold turkey.

I spent four days in a horrible, horrible state.  I had no sleep whatsoever.  The anxiety was so intense that I felt the whole world was caving in.  I paced the floor, round-and-round feeling that I was loosing my mind.  I would repeat over and over again, “Oh my God, Oh my God.”  After four days of agony, I gave up and took my daily dose of Klonopin.

My doctor maintained all along that, when I felt it was time to get off of Klonopin, all I had to do was gradually reduce the dosage over a 5 day time span (at least, this is what the drug salespersons were telling him).  Clearly, this is what I needed – or so I thought.  Armed fresh with the knowledge that I was going to ration my doses day after day until I was finally free, I began with 6 mg, then 5mg, then 4mg and so on.  At the end of 5 days, I felt horrible again.  Anxiety, needless worry, pacing, chanting to myself – all the while feeling that I was loosing my mind.  This was a kind of pain that I would not wish on my worst enemy.  I would much rather have physical pain instead of mental torture.  It was excruciating.  After years and years of being emotionally stable, well adjusted and productive, I had turned into a person who seemingly needed a straight jacket.  I went back on the benzos.

Then, I hit the big leagues.  I could not get enough benzos so, I found that a shot of vodka or two at night would help me sleep.  One shot turned into two.  Two into three.  My Klonopin habit by day was matched by my hourly doses of vodka at night.  I was in trouble and knew it.

I wondered if I was just a weak person.  My wife kept saying, “You have to stop.  It is a matter of mind over matter.”  Without having experienced drug addiction, my wife had no basis to believe differently.  As much as I tried to explain to her that it was not a matter of self control, it was a matter of intense, sustained agony that would only abate with drugs.

As you would expect, I began to lie to my wife about my usage.  She knew nothing of the nighttime vodka routine.  I told her that I was taking much less Klonopin than I was.  It was only a matter of time for the situation to come to a head.

One morning, after drinking tequila all night (I was out of vodka), my wife smelled it on me.  She then put 2 and 2 together and realized that I was over the edge.  At that point, she told me to get out of the house.

I had transformed from a relatively light drinker, good husband and father and talented business man into something that I was not proud of.  There was no getting around it - I was a hard-core drug addict and I knew it.  The only thing that separated me from a street junky was a little money – at least for now.

Recognizing that my situation was dire, I entered a 12-step rehab program for thirty days.  The routine was predictable.  They fed me Klonopin in ever small doses over a one week timeframe.  And, as you might expect, within a few days after my “detox” was declared complete by the medical staff, I was again climbing the walls.  No sleep, endless pacing, tortured thoughts, racing mind and a feeling of tremendous doom.  And to make matters worse, I took up chain smoking in a vane attempt at finding some relief.  I had never smoked in my life.

At rehab, they were sympathetic to my plight.  They even confessed to me that they were worried about my detox even before I set foot in the place.  For the first time, I was among people who understood.  But, with all the understanding in the world, they could do nothing for me.

The irony is that I was in rehab with people with all types of drug addictions.  It occurred to me that mine was the worst of anyone.  I envied the people who were on heroin.  It seems that a heroin addict suffers acutely for a period of two weeks.  I, on the other hand had arrived at the conclusion that if my benzo induced pain was going to end, it would be over an extended period.

I befriended one of the councilors who had had his own benzo addiction.  Though he had been clean for several years, he understood what was happening to me.  Then he dropped a bomb on me.  He told me that, if I was anything like him, I would be in pain for a full year before I would become totally symptom free.  The thought of that scared the hell out of me.  I could not stand another day, or so I thought.  I would never last a full year of this hell on earth.

I “coined out” at rehab and went back to my life with my wife and family.  Hell bent that I would never take drugs again, I pretended that everything was OK at first.  Surely, this pain had to end.  It did not.  In fact, it got worse and worse.  I could pretend no longer. I paced in circles in my living room 24 hours a day – with each lap I passed the liquor cabinet.  No sleep.  No relief.  My chants of “Oh my God” turned into “I want to die.”  I repeated this over and over again.  In point of fact, I did want to die.  No questions about it.  I would have welcomed death gladly.  The pain was excruciating.  I could hold out no longer.  I hit the liquor cabinet in order to medicate myself and lessen the pain.  It didn’t work.  I needed much more than I could safely steal from the cabinet without anyone noticing.  As you might expect, I went to the liquor store and started hiding my stash.  It still didn’t work.  I needed Klonopin.

At this point, my brother interceded and sent me to another detox facility – this one run by Scientologists.  It was terrible.  I will not get into the types of treatment that I had there because that is a whole story in of itself.  But, I can share what was to become my “walk in hell.”

My pacing continued – 24 hours a day.  “I want to die, I want to die” is all that I could say.  At that point, I began to loose touch with reality. Intense visions prevailed.  My mind would cycle through time – repeating every few seconds.  I could not remember what I was thinking between each cycle.  I can’t explain it any better than that. It was maddening.  My mind had cracked.  It is what physiatrists call a psychotic break.  I continued in this state, getting ever worse day-by-day for a period of 40 days.  No sleep.  No respite from the pain.  No one could help me.  Death would not come.

When my wife came to pick me up, she found me soaking wet walking in the rain on a 40 degree night.  I had convinced myself I was in hell – truly.  This was my eternity.  In fact, I was in hell.  Nobody could convince me otherwise.  The pain was unimaginable.  My brain was screaming for benzos.

In order to get me home, my wife gave me some valium.  It did the trick.  Within minutes, I felt normal again – my faculties restored, clear mind and body.  Though I was in shock after months of agony, the Valium restored me to sanity – at least for the time being.

Now, I was in for my third rehab – a new one this time.  My doctor was aware that I had suffered a psychotic break and prescribed a number anti-psychotic drugs.   At the end of 30 days, I felt much better – but not altogether out of the woods.  It was time to get back to work.

My first several months out of my third rehab were sometimes painful.  While it was not constant like it was at first, my anxiety was a problem.  And, I was racked with fear that somehow, I would degrade into that hellish state where I had come from.  Was it possible to return?  I knew that if it did, I would not live through it.

It is now 10 months after my last rehab.  I have been off of all drugs and alcohol for all of this time.  For the last month and for the first time, I feel OK.  I’ve beaten my addiction.  Finally.  Since I entered my first rehab, it has taken me 14 months.   My friend the councilor was correct.  A year is about right.

I am getting a divorce.  I still smoke.  Some things are victims of the ordeal.

But I feel lucky.  I’m alive.