11 months benzo free

MORNING DRILL or PROPHET OF LOSSES

I  am shaken awake

by the need to escape

a disturbing dream.

Or perhaps it was a false start, fired

by my faulty

circadian rhythm.

I have run to the wall that bordered sleep

hoisted myself up and over,

flung myself

down and out

of slumber,

woken

landed

prone

on the bed

eyes switched

open

met

by encroaching awareness:

Morning is not near.

The darkness is deep.

The night is still

quiet.

I am a horizontal vessel

of restlessness

mentally contending

with the wake

of an internal swill.

awash with pumping

cortisol

I turn onto my side

and feel the tip

of the balance

of a hot fluid

welled at my sternum. 

Its overflow

runs released,

hot and heavy

a molten lead

scorching

my innards

on the

divaricating passage

of its scalding spread

through the runways of my limbs;

my arms, my legs.

The displacement of its weight, leaves a hollow;

that sucks my stomach into a pit

and spits out

groaning

nausea.

I wait for this sickening tide to ebb

and when it shortly does

I am more fully aware

of the presence of the backdrop,

The other pain:

The bare set

of my life

staged plain

in the dark, still and quiet,

behind the closed curtains

I hear the shrill circada

of tinnitus

shreaking in my ears.

My left eyeball aches and weeps

as though it is has been crushed

in its socket.

Around that orb, a whole half of my face

prickles

with numbness

like local anaesthetic.

My jaw bones are seized

by the grinding grip

of TMJ dysfunction

My whole body

vibrates under

a rolling simmer,

steaming with a full-body graze

of sub cutaneous burn.

The molten lead

that earlier fed

through my torso and limbs

has cooled and settled

to weigh me down;

arrested, immobilised,

shackled by the ache

of heaviness

Even while my feet are forced

to dance and reel

under torture

of swords

relentlessly needling

the petty stabs and jabs

of persistant paraesthesia.

I am seered by

emotional numbing

and anhedonia.

Fire and Ice

Blazing and Melting

I become aware

that this is the constant

set

of my life now,

unchanged in every act

This ailing.

flailing.

pain.

This is not the life I had or knew

This is not the life I want

I am hurt more when I remember

what I read yesterday

in the medical research that proposes

a cause of chronicity in malaise

is malingering -

for the purpose of secondary gain.

That's the solution they select

in the absence of knowledge: . . .

'Blame the patient".

Over and over again.

I struggled to verbalise and make visible

the injuries that have debilitated me;

gripped by the fear of the loss of my function,

my desperation to restore it . . .

Anna didn't hear me.

She doesn't deal with physiology

She sees only through the lens of her paradigm:

Clinical Psychology

The dumping ground of the bio-medical model.

We're diverted there

for attitude adjustments

towards the insufferable

and unacceptable

and if that doesn't quiet us,

they'll refer and defer

to psychiatry

where psychotropic medication

will precurse

labels that condemn us

to insanity

In that way she had

of covering for questions

that are not due

nor well meant, nor well placed

she looked down at her lap

instead of meet her eyes to my face

when I'd sobbed of the problem

of my incapacity

and she responded with the question:

"So, what do you think is the secodary gain?"

And I didn't show her my flinch.

I daren't be defensive

I did what I did to stay safe with her

and fawned along, compliant,

yielding to the threat of her

weilding the pen that made report on me

to the insurer

Under seige, I co-opted into her untherapeutic fallacy:

that getting bashed and raped and beaten

and having my brain not work properly any more

and having my body poisoned with toxins from

prescribed medications

that have left me jerking and ticing

and have stripped my central nervous system raw

into a state of complete overwhelm

that renders me isolated, bedridden

in a darkened room

away from sound and light

and all social interaction

and any meaningful function

is actually a convenient ploy

to get my needs met by others

instead of fending for myself,

when that used to be my habit,

my security,

and my pleasure.

How ripe a question coming from her

who claims a fee of hundreds of dollars for every hour she spends with me;

"So, what do you think is the secondary gain?"

How ironic that it is

she

asking

me

to declare

the profit

from my losses.

How many tens of thousands of dollars

has her business pocketed

in the trade

on my trauma?

The only gain i ever wanted

is first and foremost

to be well

a gain

and to have that last.

I reach for my kindle

and check the time on my phone

4am

again.

I try to read my book

which eventually tires me

and i am grateful to realise

I might return to sleep.

I try to settle

my head on the pillow

in a position

that reduces

the pain in my cervical spine

and as I close my eyes

I hear

silence

broken

by the first note

of a thrush

as it heralds

the dawn

with

the chirping

pipes

of its

morning song.

Cheap and cheerful

harbinger

light and trill

so far out of tune

with the

whine

I strain

from my life now,

and my dull, dark,

drill.

Wow

best to you

Wow is right! I can relate to every word! Thanks for sharing!

Sandy

Thank you Sandy.    Only sorry that you know the drill too. I've just read your signature and see what a long road it's been for you.  So sorry for all you've suffered. Our tapers ended around the same time. Wow, one year off for you now.   

Even though I don't have my life back, yet I'm so glad and grateful to have that much distance  from the benzo use. Time to recover.

My gratitude for what has been restored to me since I stopped taking Benzos, sits in the context of all the damage they have done and from which I have not yet recovered.

This is a life 'on hold' in suffering, waiting, waiting for things to be better again.  

I don't come here often, but when I do, I know I am not alone in this.  This is an endurance feat that demands courage and tenancity, and even though the overall tone of my poem post might read negative, it's underlined by a relentless optimism. 

I see that in your signature, and all of us courageous buddies.

How else, except to hold the hand of hope, would it be possible to ride this out?

Thanks again for reading and replying. All the best wishes to you.

Sarah  nz

Sarah,

I didn’t find your post was negative, just an accurate description of the harmful effects of benzodiazepines. I was so grateful to see in words what I have been through, and that someone else understands!

Wishing you a very speedy recovery! Keep the faith!

Sandy❤️