I'm scared to death tonight. I feel physically ill.

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DyingUpInHere

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#23
It was General Hospital. Back when I used to watch it on SoapNet (when there was a SoapNet years ago) at ten every night before bed. My refuge. Right after Degrassi. On TeenNick. And right after the Factor on Fox News (back when there was a Factor). My routine every night. Now my routine consists of nothing. I felt a great sense of escapism last night watching the film, "Apt Pupil" from 1998. Hadn't seen it in years. I was completely absorbed in it. I want to see the film, "Lost in Yonkers" from 1993 now. But I can't seem to find it anywhere. It's been ages since I've seen it.
 
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DyingUpInHere

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#24
Unfortunately, I can't stop thinking of this. I'm scared to death the world is going to do this to me once they all find out how vulnerable scared I am.
 
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DyingUpInHere

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#26
For days, that sixteen seconds has been playing in my head. I wish I'd never started taking benzodiazepines. They've changed my brain so much that I can no longer deal with any reality. I have to stay submerged in fiction and even that's not good enough. I'm suffering everyday. I've got to get away from my psychiatrist. I hope he retires. He's 81. It's possible. I've used these drugs to avoid reality. And I'm paralyzed by the fear of not having them. And by the fear of continuing them. I'm dying either way. Of fear. Just like Martin Brody. The fear of the shark killed him according to his adulterous wife Ellen. She said so in the final film. I found out today that my neighbor from long ago moved to an apartment building a few miles away that I used to stare at all the time while sitting in the cemetery next to it. I would fantasize that a woman named Fuchsia lived somewhere in there and that one day she'd aid in my transition to the other side. But that fantasy is dead. As dead as Jeff Curro's arm in that sling. It's not coming back. I've got a terrible headache today. Terrible. The aftereffects of the miniscule amount of Seroquel, Valium, and Klonopin I took last night. I must have extremely low blood pressure. My pupils were like pinpricks this morning even after coffee. This has got to stop. I should never have been allowed to use benzodiazepines everyday and for years.
 
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DyingUpInHere

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#27
I miss my cat. I miss my sobriety. I have to see my doctor tomorrow. I'm wondering if I should just end it tomorrow. And no longer see him. It's been 5 and I half years. Even he has suggested I no longer see him.
 
Mayfair

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#28
I want to move to Arizona. Some part of it that is not entirely desert.
I wonder why people want to live somewhere else, as if things would be better?

I do the same.

For me though, I don't know the difference between Arizona and NY (other than it's probably less populated, based on my basic only USA knowledge)

I get this, though, as my other place is an unhabited island (though I'd need a boat/jetty/ money/ and a supermarket at the nearest habited place!)

Perhaps we should all do a huge exchange programme and try out each other's place?! :)

I've been to Manhattan, but wouldn't swap with my current home. It's really good, but too busy for me. Like London, but I liked NY as seemed easier to find my way around with the grid system.
 
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DyingUpInHere

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#31
I don't really want to go anywhere else. I just know I can't survive here in NY. I don't have enough money. And never will. I don't want to spend the rest of my life around so many people, too. There are too many here. I would prefer to go back to the way I used to be - when spending most of my time alone didn't bother me. I don't think that's possible. I remember ten years ago to this day March 6 I was just acclamating to this apartment (having moved in on the 4th two days prior). I pushed myself too hard moving and became sick for days. I was completely overwhelmed. But hopeful then. I knew I'd recover. I wasn't riddled with uncertainty over the future. Or riddled with benzodiazepines. I think that tomorrow for my own physical health at least I will sever all ties with my doctor of five and a half years. And cut off my supply of benzodiazepines. I feel that soon I'll have some form of cancer or disease if I continue to pollute my body. I'm not supposed to die before 35. Or 40.
 
Victorianna

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#32
You will need to taper off benzodiazepines, and also find a new doctor, if you’re quitting this one. Maybe a new perspective is needed for your situation.
 
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DyingUpInHere

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#35
At one point when the doctor asks her to say something to see if she can talk after surgery Anne says, "what do you want me to say"? Confirming that she can speak. But the removal of part of her tongue has left her with a speech impediment.
 
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DyingUpInHere

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#36
I used to love seeing clips from movies I never would have seen otherwise in compilations like this one.
 
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#38
I don't remember what I said. I must have said I'd discontinue with him. Of course I didn't. I just made sure to get ten Ambien tablets. At very end of the "session" (time would be better spent sweeping the floor of an unfinished basement). I have to get something out it. Otherwise, why bother to go at all? I've lost all hope. I just want to be able to choose when I go to sleep at night. Instead of languishing in bed. If I can make them last, it may serve a real purpose this time around. There is some major deconstruction and reconstruction slated for next week. But it is open ended. I have no idea how long it will go on for. I just know that it will be intolerably loud. So I suppose it's best that even without pills my sleeping patterns have shifted slightly in the last few months. Or the last month. I don't wake up as late in the morning as I used to. And the way it looks now - I'd have to be up earlier than in the past. So it's best that it's already shifted on its own. I only found out a few hours ago. Today. Jackhammers. Knocking down of a retaining wall. Right outside my bedroom window. Not more than fifty feet away. So I'll be listening to it all day. For who knows how long. I'm so whacked out of my brain with worry that I'm actually considering leaving my home and going to a mental hospital. As if it's a retreat. Or a vacation. That's how disconnected from reality I am - and how faulty my thinking is. It's not evena home in my mind. It's just some place where I have no lease, the rent is too high, everything in the apartment is neglected and failing, I hate all of my neighbors, and I hate the entire owners corporation as a whole. For over ten years, they've been trying to drive my mother and I out. I feel like I'm right at the end. The only option is to take out a loan that we'll never pay back and move to some other hole. Where at least everyone else will be a renter, too. At least I've got plenty of drugs. I've been trying to build up a reserve in anticipation of something awful happening. And when you're as troubled and addled with anxiety as I am - anything can end up qualifying as a major disaster. But I've lost all hope. I don't believe anything will get any better. I'm ready to start throwing away my personal belongings. But not my clothes. Or bed. I need those things. I don't want anything else anymore.
 
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#39
For days, that sixteen seconds has been playing in my head. I wish I'd never started taking benzodiazepines. They've changed my brain so much that I can no longer deal with any reality. I have to stay submerged in fiction and even that's not good enough. I'm suffering everyday. I've got to get away from my psychiatrist. I hope he retires. He's 81. It's possible. I've used these drugs to avoid reality. And I'm paralyzed by the fear of not having them. And by the fear of continuing them. I'm dying either way. Of fear. Just like Martin Brody. The fear of the shark killed him according to his adulterous wife Ellen. She said so in the final film. I found out today that my neighbor from long ago moved to an apartment building a few miles away that I used to stare at all the time while sitting in the cemetery next to it. I would fantasize that a woman named Fuchsia lived somewhere in there and that one day she'd aid in my transition to the other side. But that fantasy is dead. As dead as Jeff Curro's arm in that sling. It's not coming back. I've got a terrible headache today. Terrible. The aftereffects of the miniscule amount of Seroquel, Valium, and Klonopin I took last night. I must have extremely low blood pressure. My pupils were like pinpricks this morning even after coffee. This has got to stop. I should never have been allowed to use benzodiazepines everyday and for years.
Hi,
I've been studying psychology for 2 years now and although I'm not an expert I can understand why you were prescribed benzodiazepines. They basically are supposed to increase the chemical called GABA in the brain, which aims to relax the individual and their muscles meaning that the person has reduced anxiety.

However, you said you use them everyday and for years in fact! And you are quite correct in saying that you should not have been able to take them for so long as benzodiazepines are supposed to be a short term medication and not to be taken longer than 4 weeks! This is because the brain gets used to the drug and so the effect no longer occurs. So I would definitely suggest you stop taking them, but research how to deal with withdrawal symptoms and relapse because that might happen.

Good luck :hug:
 
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DyingUpInHere

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#40
Thank you for your input. Support. Information. I appreciate it. But we live in a world of (I'm not even sure how to say it). I think that most doctors really have no checks or balances. Except when it comes to high profile highly politicized drugs like narcotics. Or amphetamines. Those are all Schedule II nowadays. Benzodiazepines are still Scheduled IV. There aren't the kinds of limitations placed on them like Schedule II. I've seen many posts on the social anxiety forum I used to frequent where people described being on them for years. And I've seen many (wish I hadn't) posts on illicit forums where users describe the inconceivably high volume of drugs they are taking. Scares the shit out of me. I've seen Michael Jackson's autopsy report (again, wish I hadn't). Every benzodiazepine in existence he was swallowing. Plus, stimulants, sedating antidepressants, and a million more drugs. He was skin and bones. When they opened his stomach they found nothing but partially dissolved or fully dissolved capsules and tablets. He was his own subgenre within the horror genre. I forgot what my point was - I guess it's - I just can't stop right now. But don't have the access or money to buy and devour a Walgreen's. So I'll never be as bad as him. Or Corey Haim. Or Anna Nicole. Or Marilyn Monroe. So I'll survive. I just don't want to end up on neuroleptics one day. I'll keep sipping my chamomile tea and controlling my intake of pills. Somehow. I'm guessing with moral support from my mother - I'll get by. For a few more years. In the meantime, I have to stay away from mental hospitals. And psychiatrists who work in them. I've had a private psychiatrist who accepts Medicare as full payment for the last five and a half years. Soon, when my mom and I leave the NY area for someplace cheaper like Utah or something like that, I'll have to start all over again. And hope I get a doctor who doesn't want to feed me neuroleptics.
 

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