Seriously. I had no idea I was even doing drugs. Except for pizza, I was snorting pizza, ain’t no saint. Hell, I would break into peoples houses and steal their hard earned pizza. I’d lie, cheat and steal to be alone with that smack. But I knew that about myself...and so did you. You didn’t think I had a thyroid disorder did you? No, you knew I was carb loading in a dark alley when you saw me gain 60 pounds during a long weekend.    

But Drugs, Nah. I’m a rule follower. I don’t do drugs. I don’t smoke, I wear my seatbelt, even when the car isn’t running. One time in high school I visited a college boy and he gave me a breath mint, and then told me it was acid, My face instantly melted, I begged between hysterical sobs to make it stop. It was a terrible minute before I realized he was laughing because he was kidding and not because he was an acid trip clown.  Nope not about that drug life.

Now Medication. Medication prescribed by a doctor, that’s a different story. And that is the story I want to talk about.

Sometime after having children, my charming neurosis took a turn. Generalized anxiety escalated into full blown panic attacks and debilitating phobias. Fears held me prisoner in my home and in my
mind. Not willing to give up on a meaningful existence, I rallied hard. I fought daily with my thoughts and sought help everywhere I could think.

I started deep breathing, meditating, tapping on my cheekbones, tapping on my skull, tapping on my philtrum, talking, calming apps, hypnosis, cognitive behavior therapy, journaling, eating a vegan diet free from processed sugar, praying and hopping on one foot while barking like a dog. 

During this time, my dysfunction took on a physical manifestation. I became sick, depressed and scared. I spent hours in my therapists office crying, blabbering, complaining. She suggested medication, I turned my nose up. Two years later, I was still crying, about THE SAME THINGS! She suggested that the combination of anxiety medication and therapy would be more helpful than therapy alone. I was exhausted. 

I have had a bottle of Ativan for 20 years. That’s right, one bottle. I would refill it every few years and keep it in my purse for emergencies. I would grip the bottle in my sweaty hand while I was flying, and
take a pill at the precise moment when my fear of medication was trumped by my fear of a fiery mid air collision.  I was so thankful to have that safety net, one time I went on a job interview during a tornado watch and was locked down in a windowless room with twenty strangers and no bathroom, I was sure glad to have a benzodiazepine at that moment! 

But it didn’t help with the day to day anxiety. If I took a pill, my day was gone. I wouldn’t drive, I couldn’t function.  Sometimes I would mention I was going to take one, and someone would overhear me and ask for one as well..for fun!!

I was like what?  This isn’t fun, it’s not cotton candy, I couldn’t understand why anyone would want to take this thing...It didn’t make me feel good….it only made me feel not bad enough to imminently die.

I saw a psychiatrist once when my panic attacks first started interrupting my days, he prescribed a bunch of stuff that made my jaw unwillingly clench shut and my eyes bug out like a cartoon boy rabbit who just saw a sexier cartoon girl rabbit. 

He also tried to TAKE my bottle of Ativan. Take it from me and throw it away. He said “ You think you are hurting now, You will be in a world of hurt you don’t even know about.” He was spitting when he talked  “Benzos are the devil” he said like I was a moron. I hated him. Know-it-all stupid doctor. Shaking his head at me. I quit the cartoon crazy pills he prescribed and never went back.

I didn’t even think of him years later when the new psychiatrist listened to the 6 minute version of my life story and sent me on my way with a prescription for Xanax. To be taken 3 times a day. Every day.

 “That seems like a lot” I said, “What about addiction?” (This next part is called “Blinded by articulate sentences.”) The doctor laughed. “The way you were taking Ativan, just on occasion is the most addictive way to take a benzodiazepine. You are essentially rewarding your brain for having panic, by relieving the panic with a pill. Our goal is to keep your body from even thinking about going into a panic attack.” 

Genius! I thought, wait, that’s not possible for me… “Doctor, you really think it’s possible for me to go a day without having a panic attack?”

He laughed again, his eyes were calm and warm, I felt like he wanted the best for me. “Yes ED, we can get you to be panic-free” he said, like it was easy as pie, as if the past decade of terror could be flicked off like a flea. 

I walked out of that office on clouds. I had hope for the first time in years.

I should have said, I walked out into clouds, because that is where things got cloudy. The next few years, I could have starred in any zombie movie. I talked, walked and thought like thick molasses. I was diagnosed with a bunch of invisible shit that maybe just touched on explaining the severe pain and exhaustion that had become my normal.

I felt swathed in pain, joint, muscle, nerve and deep bone. I could sleep for 17 hours and feel like I hadn’t slept at all. Days turned into weeks in bed. A shower demanded a nap before and after. My hair matted to my head. I felt pointless, and I didn’t care. 

Every few months I would return to the doctor. I don’t feel good I would shrug my shoulders, “You don’t look good” he would say, “You should see a Rheumatologist” and off I would go
searching for the cure. “Do you think it could be the Xanax?”  I asked one day, “No, no the side effects would have disappeared a long time ago” he said

 “I can’t stay awake” I mentioned in one visit “you need a sleep study” he suggested. And on and on it went.

Some days I couldn’t hold my pencil. My hands and feet were numb, My pelvis felt stabbed by ice picks, Sitting up felt like ripping apart. My skin hurt. I could lay down, moan and stare. Conversations exhausted me. Television confused me. Mail seemed impossible to read.

People would call me about artwork I apparently agreed to create, and then a few days later they would call looking for it. I couldn’t even say “OMG I’m so sorry it slipped my mind” because the truth is, it didn’t slip my mind, I had NO IDEA who they were. No Idea what they were talking about, None. No vague familiar memory. Entire conversations gone.

I would find emails and read very coherent replies that I had written, because apparently I am a brilliant zombie…..but to me the words were foreign, I have NO memory of writing, no memory of the words. I had some sort of crazy hit or miss amnesia. 

I had been trying to cut back on the Xanax myself, pushing back the dosing times to see if I could stay awake longer and get work done. Within a few hours of missing a dose panic would seize hold of me. My heart would beat in my whole body, I felt sick, green, grey, nauseous.

I was now taking almost 4 mgs of Xanax a day, exactly as prescribed. 

My mom came for a visit in August. I don’t remember it. I talked to my therapist and psychiatrist about getting off the Xanax, That is when I was first told about the 18 month taper. 18 MONTHS of tapering. I began reading about tapering from Xanax, and realized I was IN that world of hurt that the first doctor I saw had warned about. 

You can’t just go off of xanax. It is one of the few substances that have withdrawal symptoms so violent they can kill you. We decided the best course of action was a medically supervised detox. 

I am glad I was so out of it during the hunt for the perfect rehabilitation center. It was apparently a very stressful decision. The sales tactics were comparable to the shwarmiest of car dealers. We would call one place and ask how much it was, and they would say $30,000. We would hang up, they would call back and offer it for $20,000...but for you just this time it is $17,000. “Listen, what’s it gonna take to get you into this rehab today?” The pressure was immense. We would like one
place and then call another that would say the first place was terrible, and then call another that said the second place was like a prison.

We wanted a holistic place with yoga and healthy food because bahahahahahahah hahahahahahahah ha hahah ha ...I thought that would make a difference, that was the important thing. 

Going to rehab is a lot like having a baby. Nobody can explain it to you. 

I remember having a baby and then nursing and being like, “What in tarnation?!! Why didn’t anyone tell me that the milk came out all over the nipple?” I for real thought it came out one little hole in the end like a baby bottle. That is what rehab is like, only the baby you are having, is the devils, and you are having it in Hell.

I don’t say that as a deterrent. The truth is there is NO way I could have gotten off of Xanax on my own.I can say that unequivocally. I could not have tapered off for 18 months alone in my house. I needed
constant unyielding supervision, medical help, support, emotional, physical, spiritual and supernatural aide. It is without exaggeration the hardest thing I have ever done. In every way. There was no easy part. 

Do I sound dramatic? I hope that I do. Because being physically dependent on a drug, is dramatic.Sweepingly dramatic. Low Lows, Sick Sicknesses, Sad Sads, Lonely Lonelies. 

My mom and I drove to a rehab in Florida.  On the website there were pictures of people riding horses on the beach. Equine therapy was listed as one of their many holistic treatments. The housing was luxurious on the website, with lush velvet chairs and comfy couches.
We pulled up to the building, certain we were lost. 

The term “bait and switch” came up about 30 million times while I was there. Complaints were rampant. Things were unfair. The facility had a vast range of services from top of the line to possibly unsafe, to absolutely negligent. And again, NONE of that mattered. The only thing that mattered was getting off this drug and surviving. 

 My mom was shaking as I signed all my belongings into a giant vault and hugged her goodbye. She kept asking if I wanted to go somewhere else, there was another rehab an hour down the road, I could go there. I made the decision to stay. I needed to get off of this medication like I needed air. 

I was driven to a separate detox center a few miles down the road. It was conveniently in the projects, so if you were in fact to escape the detox compound, you could effectively score drugs at the house
next door, or maybe from the barefoot guy pushing a shopping cart full of cans (not to judge). I didn’t recognize this place from the website, but it seemed familiar, yes, I had seen it in “One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest.” I had doubts that I was too exhausted to discuss.

I was told that most people stay in the detox portion of the facility for 3-5 days, I figured I could do that. I was shown to a simple room with a very hard bed, a shared bath, stains on the ceiling, flickering fluorescents. I was given a bunch of meds in a paper cup, I was told what they were, but I don’t remember. I know one of them was an anti seizure medication. I think they started the xanax taper? I have no idea. 

Everyone was very nice. I was offered food. I was told I could hang out in my room, in the fenced backyard or the common room. I felt lonely and sad and I missed my phone like it was a child torn from my arms. But I was ok. I was ok and confident I was in the right place.

I was ok the next day too. It wasn’t until the 3rd day that I was NOT OK. I was in full labor with no epidural screaming “Something is wrong” kinda NOT OK. I know this only because I wrote in a journal
and my handwriting changes on this day, this is the day the panic attacks came back with a vengeance. This is the day I sat rocking back and forth. The day I stopped sleeping and started fearing my reflection in the mirror...because if I looked at her, I would lose myself in the
mirror and never return…..ummm scuse me, what? 

One day I was given two new medications to deal with some of the very uncool symptoms of withdrawal.  A few hours later I was rushed in an ambulance to the emergency room with what was later diagnosed as a dystonic reaction. Involuntary muscle spasms in my tongue, throat, side, chest, and pelvis. The spasms twisted my body fiercely. My tongue swam down my throat.  I could not find a way to sit or exist.

I had to tuck my arm behind my back and lean on it in order to keep from hitting myself in the face. I couldn’t eat solid food. I had to relearn how to chew and swallow.

I watched people come and go from detox, I watched the alcoholics shake for a day or two and then emerge fresh faced and ready to go.
I watched heroin addicts dry heave as they ran to a bathroom and then chain smoke for a few days before moving on. I shuffled down the hallway in my fluffy bathrobe staring at my hands,
not sure if they had been replaced by someone else’s hands. Whose hands are these? 

Finally 21 days, 2 ambulance rides, 30 bowls of oatmeal, a millennium without the internet, and 1 magazine read until the letters wore off later I was finally released to the general population, I was well enough to start the real work of recovery.

My Goodbye Letter to Xanax :

Dear Xanax,

I want to thank you. I want to thank you for giving me a break from panic attacks and from myself. It was so great to relax and be unafraid of the world. I loved sleeping alone in my house without the burden of thinking I would be robbed or attacked, or the constant fear that my children would be raped in their beds or that my throat was closing. It was amazing to be without thoughts and I do not take those moments for granted. They taught me that my mind could rest and that horrors
are not lurking around every corner.

But Xanax, I have to tell you, as much as you gave to me, you took away much much more. You hurt me more than any man, any medical device, and any legal battle. You hurt me more than I could have imagined when I first met you over two years ago. I could not recognize a thief. I did not realize you would steal years from me, that is time I can never get back.

Xanax you stole my years. You destroyed my business. You destroyed my body, my bank account and my trust in the universe.You made me believe there was no such thing as hope.

And Xanax you stole my kids from me, they slipped thru my fingers while I was under your hold. They have had to grow up too soon, to tuck their mom into bed, instead of the other way around.

You took the light from my eyes, ripped out my smile and dampened my mind to a grey mush. My brain rot like newspaper in a wet gutter, breaking down into gaggable chunks of oatmeal. You killed me inside a living body that I didn’t recognize. Killed the me of me, dead.

But Xanax, when I put you down, I came back to life. I want you to know I can rebuild. I have and I will continue to rebuild. My body, mind and business will grow stronger than ever before. I am raging against the hurt you laid down in my life. I , just me, will be victorious and you will expire on a dark shelf alone. You in your inert shell can do me no more harm.

The anger that I have towards you is freeing, justified and appropriate.  We are supposed to be angry with things that hurt us, and I am not afraid to be mad at you.

My life without you is beautiful. My friends and family are a fortress. My business, my art and my writing will blossom in your wake.

This is a break-up forever Xanax. Don’t call me. Don't even think about it. It’s not me, it’s you. You don’t get to be a part of my life anymore.

In all sincerity, 

ED HOSE

 _______

I learned a lot thru the experience of chemical dependency.

That in a choice between feeling nothing and feeling everything, I choose everything.

That I don’t ever want to dull my power or give it away again. 

That I can do hard things. Hard things that would make grown men cry. Hard things that many people do not have the opportunity to do. Things that countless people do not survive.

Getting clean with help is an absolute privilege. Great things often need great help.  

I have countless stories from my 52 days in Rehab. I will share them if you have questions or want to know more.

I asked so many people for advice before I went. A dear friend told me
“ you will want to leave, at some point during your stay, you will say, screw this, I’m outta here, for whatever reason, the place, the people, something outside, something that happens. Know this is normal, know that your body will trick you. Resist the urge to leave.”

That bit of advice was pivotal for me, because that moment came, it came often, and I was able to sit with it and say “Oh I see you little urge to leave, I see you, but I am in charge here, we aren’t leaving” Knowing it was normal and expecting it, prepared me to handle it. Talking to it, acknowledging the urge but not giving into it, was a big lesson. I started it then, and have continued it for so many intrusive
thoughts since.

One of the things people ask me about is the place I went. I have nothing to compare it to and I hope I never do. Like most things, I think you get out, what you put in. It was a good place to put a lot of work in. Was it luxurious? no. Was the salad bar amazing? yes. Were the staff caring? absolutely! Were there some tragic creeps? yes! Did the good outweigh the bad? Yes! In Every Way! Did you have to pee in a cup? Like every five minutes! Would you recommend it?
If you are stuck, you deserve to get unstuck.

I am off of Xanax completely now. It feels precarious and new. Some days I wake up to music, make my bed, and hit the ground for prayer and meditation. Some days are still raw. I am enrobed in wild dystonia that twists me awake and trains me to sit with discomfort. My brain
isn’t quite right. My memory still has a glitch. I keep saying it is like 50 First Dates over here, I keep saying that over and over forgetting I said it.

I am more than fine with the imperfections, I am so happy to be alive. So thankful for the gift of moments, clear or otherwise. The further away I get from Xanax, the better I feel. I am on a quest of radical healing, radical self care and radical patience. 

 It is a new year, I ring it in with lots of excitement for this second chance. I have great plans for living  healthfully. There is so much to create and give, SO much to fix and love. I think I can live an even fuller life having seen what I saw on the edge of my sanity. I can dance broader having touched such intense pain. I can be more present, having lost myself in the dark abyss.

Even if I don’t do anything particularly memorable this next year, I am blissfully thankful to have the opportunity to remember it.

Special thanks to the eclectic folks of rehab, your brave stories sparked my strength.

My parents for the gift of healing. My mom for saving my life. My friends and family for the embarrassing amount of gifts and letters in rehab, you lifted my spirits omg you have no idea.

For peacocks, you were everywhere and you made the whole experience incredibly surreal, especially when you would skulk around in a group outside the window and peek in, your tilted heads and strange curious beaks clacking the glass like magic weirdos.

UPDATE:

Finding Peace.

There was a time I would have described myself as quirky and neurotic at best to terrifyingly panic stricken at worst.

Praying for peace, was a pleading to no longer be so riddled with neurosis, it wasn't for me so much about relaxation and calm, it was about grocery shopping and adventure. I dreamed of being able to go with the flow without doomsday negativity. How nice it would be to not think about a million horrible deaths every time I drive over a bridge.

Peace, looked like the opposite of fear. My anxiety was a prison and peace looked like freedom. I viewed peace as breaking out of prison never to return. And that IS NOT how it has been for me.

Peace is more like finding the sunshine thru the bars.

It is a completely inner journey of mindset shifting. Peace doesn't come from fighting or even reducing my anxiety. It is a gaze in a different direction. I occasionally experience these clear moments of bliss. The delight in my skin, the majesty of a flower, the way clouds play in puddles, the quizzical look of a curious dog. I get those moments, but I don't live in a land called peace, it is much more a practice than a destination.

So, making peace personal is like harnessing a power. The awareness that I have a power inside me to be ok and at peace regardless of what is happening around me has been transformative.

Learning to hear the needs of my cells has made me super cognizant of everything around me. During the moments when I am open to it..Of course sometimes I just wallow in my own distress. But when I am open to listen, to connect my breath, to feel attraction to the sun, and rooted in the earth, magic happens.

The differences between a human being and a blade of grass do not seem so vast. And if I am sister to a blade of grass, how incredibly close and connected are we? If we are all connected we are never alone. That feels like peace to me.

ED Hose is an artist and illustrator from Brunswick, Georgia. She is self-described as a “weird, wacky, & whimsical freelance illustrator for custom and unusual art, gifts, murals, maps, and book illustration.”

As a freelance illustrator she has created public art as well as commercial book work. Her work is featured especially in the downtown section of Brunswick. Other public works are also on display in Charleston, South Carolina. The first exhibition of her original work was a part of Art Downtown, held in 2009, entitled Bacon Wrapped Double Happiness Served on a Crispy Bed of Awesome.  In 2015 Hose published the book The ED Hose Totally Off the Wall Coloring Book: Seriously Right Off The Wall, her first coloring book. She has also illustrated fourteen children’s books for other authors, including Grace Gore Sturdivan, Vincent LaFontan, and Mattie Brown, in addition to other non-fiction works.  Commission commercial and custom work, and purchase her art and books at www.edhose.com.

EDITOR’s NOTE: Ed’s illustration honoring the late Ruth Bader Ginsburg, calling us to action in her name, has been picked up by MS Magazine! Posters are also available.