I was so close. If I could just make it through the evening, I would have gone four days without a Klonopin. A first in over two years. But things were falling apart.
Gus was very sick, and his misery made me anxious. I had to do my first solo Girl Scout meeting that night, which made me anxious. I’d taken a half a caffeine pill earlier in the day, and I was still inexplicably jittery from it, which made me…yeah you’re getting it. Frankly by that point I had a growing uneasiness that the blades of grass in my lawn were all different lengths. SUCH CHAOS.
I sat at the cluttered dining table furiously coloring paper plates for the meeting. One yellow to represent truth, and one dark blue for lies. The crayon strokes were jagged and scribbled because my hands were shaking.
“Gus, honey, I know you’re sick but I need you to talk me down from having a Klonopin. Cuz I’m feeling like I need one real bad.”
He lumbered over to the table and sat down, snorting and hacking, squinting his watery eyes and trying to focus on me.
“I am probably not the best person to do that,” he said. “I think going cold turkey off a benzodiazepine is dangerous.” And that was when I realized why I had never gone more than three days without a Klonopin. Why it always fell apart before the fourth day.
I remember the frustration of watching my P.A. look up “Klonopin” in her little drug dictionary, tracing her finger down the page as we haggled over how high of a dose she would give me.
“Mmm. Says here that the drug is effective for up to 70 hours,” she looked up with a sort of, ‘ooo, sorry…that means I can’t give you as much as you want’ grimace. In my head, I slapped that stupid little book out of her hands and screamed “Bullshit! Try TWO hours!” Maybe I should have. It would have supported my case that I needed tranquilizers.
Well lo and behold. Even though the warm fuzzies last but a few hours, the dope itself rides your bloodstream for days, keeping things even. As those 70 hours expire, I begin to shake and worry and sorrow. I couldn’t think straight. How was I going to help my little girls earn their petals if I couldn’t talk without tripping over my tongue or having my voice break?
I always think there is virtue in needless suffering. That it shows how tough I am. Well, that’s dumb. I took a half dose. No high followed, but the world righted itself and allowed me passage through. Now I take a half dose when things are grim. I apparently still need it, legitimately. Where is the balance between reasonable use and lazy, “I don’t like this reality so I’ll try another one” use?
I don’t know what will happen next.