benzo benzo benzo

Nonfiction by Isabel Emerson

Light isn’t falling; it’s dripping. 

Slowly, like really thick honey falling off my spoon, into the mug and onto the floor. Another mess.

This light drips from the sky into the river. It’s flowing fast, but it’s hardly any bigger than a stream. Drops of light hit the surface, and suddenly it’s luminous. Diamonds. Diamonds on the water. 

“Isabel, did you hear what I said?” the therapist pulls me back. From the other side of a computer. Therapy online is too strange.

“What?”

“Are you suicidal?” he repeats.

 “No,” this reply is too quick, only in the afternoons.

He reads my face or my mind, so he asks about the medication. welcome to the party,  I think to myself.

(from 4mg to 3mg)

Suicidal ideation is a symptom that comes with the withdrawal from benzodiazepines. Prescription medicine aims to fix the chemical imbalances inside the brain. Supposedly, making mental illness less painful. Clonazepam (generic for Klonopin) is a benzodiazepine. I call it, affectionately, my klon. 

And suicidal ideation? Less than ideal. Medically? It's a side effect: no different from my disturbing dreams. Or my weak immune system. Or my feeling so bored with sex: it gives me as much pleasure as playing tennis *insert a yawn* here- with a stranger. Side effects.

“How long have you been taking benzodiazepines for anxiety?” he asks me.

I pause, looking at the river. The sun’s gone away and with it the glimmering surface. “Eight or nine years.”

He’s quiet for a second, his eyes sort of searching, “What? What I mean...What dose are you taking?” 

Again, I hesitate, “A high one. Four milligrams now three milligrams.”

“Wow, four,” he repeats, but softly, quietly to himself as if he meant to say ah shit.

I didn’t expect this response from him. But this reaction is typical in the medical community. It's like they have their own little judgment club. I imagine they all gather, sip wine on someone’s gorgeous patio and discuss their patients’ troubled brains- who’ll make it and who won’t. Patients taking benzos for two to three weeks can expect to experience withdrawal symptoms. And I’m well past three weeks. 

“You’re quiet now.”

No shit. I have had these pills dancing around in my pockets for more than eight years. I am ashamed of this high dose, ashamed for wanting it, ashamed that it hurts to stop taking it. And it hurts everywhere. I’m uncertain of negative long-term effects. Taking fewer benzos, from 4mg to 3mg, my mind feels unreal, dreamlike.  Medically, this is called a degree of derealization.

“Nobody ever really pushed me to stop taking it. Maybe because of what might happen if I took less…”

Across the room, my dog sighs but loudly... I glance over at her- a perk of the at-home therapy. She likes to lay on the back of the couch: like a cat. All grey and dark, her fluffy ears perking up, then resting again. Now, this cat-dog tilts her head in this small way. It’s what she does when I say w-a-l-k or outside or treat. 

“How’s your dog today?” This guy is relentless. 

But I feel my whole body soften, just a tiny, “She’s okay.”

“And do you recall who started you on the 4mg dosage?”

Wow, he really is in the judgy club.

“It got increased when I was in New Mexico, at the residential treatment place. I was there 42 days and 43 nights. It was early winter. Snow fell every night, but it all melted by mid-day.”

“So, a psychiatrist at that treatment facility?”

What’s he gonna do? Call them up and have a chat? “Ja.”

“So to ensure your physical and mental safety, this prescription has continued for years. And now you’ll taper down- with a psychiatrist’s supervision, safely; it takes how long?” 

 “Yeah. About a year. If I can...”

There’s a long pause. About a year hangs in between the online space. It’s uncomfortable- like that misused comma.

“And what made you want to decrease it now- or in January, when you started the taper?”

“We want- we wanted a baby. It was part of the plan.”

“You and your ex-fiance?”

“Mmhhmmmh,” I’m speaking to the ground. I need to look away from his sad yet piercing blue eyes and unkempt hair. Cat-dog over there has tilted her head just so, raised her little dog eyebrows and ears, knowing eyes, soft, as if she can tell her mama bear is close to tears.

“...And you can’t be pregnant safely while taking a benzodiazepine.”

...And a gold star for mr handsome...

“You’re quiet again.” 

And I am. But I want to scream. I want to rip my face off my face. Nothing makes sense. There can’t be a baby now.

And these pills- depending on the manufacturer- are itty-bitty, blue 1mg tablets. Pop one under my tongue? One MD described it as “...a six-pack in a pill…” Dangerous little blue pills, for highly anxious people. An alternative to Xanax, to some quaaludes, and to what the Rolling Stones famously refer to as the ‘mother’s little helper.’

It’s throbbing behind my right eye- light is a bitch. All concentration is a struggle. I’d like to keep my sunglasses on and not explain why. This decrease. From four to three. Less of the little blue pills. Less.

This river gets darker as the sun drops fast, like an egg. Thwack. It falls and breaks, leaving behind another mess. My brain is this egg, this mess: there are too few blue pills now.  I just can’t. I just can’t. 

IE, 2021