Whispering Wyrd

In sixteen days, it will be one year since I took my last benzodiazepine.
One year free. One year since my last and final pill.

For so long, I was told by doctors and pharmacists that I would never be able to stop. That the doses were too high. That the length of use was too long. That freedom was no longer an option for me. Those words didn’t come from strangers, they came from the very professions meant to help, not discourage.

But I did it.

At nearly sixty years old, I knew I didn’t want to spend whatever time I have left as a slave to a drug. After a year-and-a-half-long taper, I took my last dose. When I told my current doctor, he said, “I didn’t think you would be able to do it. I’ve never had a patient succeed after over two decades of use.”

But I did.

During acute withdrawal, there were countless moments when I believed I had made a terrible mistake. Times when the suffering felt unbearable. Times when I wanted to go back on, just to make the pain and suffering stop. But I didn’t. I kept going.

I kept going because of the love and unwavering support of my wife and my sons. Because of my family. I kept going because freedom mattered more to me than comfort.

I don’t know what I expected one year out. I think part of me assumed I would be completely healed by now. I’m not. I am much better, there’s no question about that, but I still experience waves. Symptoms return. Sometimes for weeks, not days.

Because of the length of my use, I live with PAWS, post-acute withdrawal syndrome. Having a name for it doesn’t make it easier, but it does remind me that I’m not alone. That I’m not broken. That this is something others have walked through too.

One year clean. One year clear.

For the first time in decades, I’m not dependent on a substance. Before benzos, it was alcohol. So this, this clarity, is something I’ve waited far too long to experience. There’s no chemical fog now. No constant rage. No bottomless despair.

Life is beautiful. I see it clearly now.

Sometimes regret sneaks in. That it took almost sixty years to arrive here. That I lost so much time. But I don’t stay there. I refuse to live in regret or in the past. I don’t want to live in the future either.

I choose now.

Because now is the only place life can be touched. The only place it can be lived.

Even during the waves, especially during the waves, I practice gratitude. I’m grateful for my wife and my sons. I’m grateful for this astonishingly beautiful place I call home. For the mountains that held me when I was falling apart and continue to help me heal.

I’m grateful for the ravens calling overhead, reminding me that I am never truly alone. For the pines, junipers, and firs that scent the air I breathe. For the mountain wildlife that heard my weeping. For the Earth that caught my tears.

This has been the hardest journey of my life. I have shed more tears than I could ever count. But I have also known moments of joy and beauty that I never imagined were possible.

There is no way to explain long-term benzodiazepine withdrawal to someone who hasn’t lived it. I don’t expect understanding, and I wouldn’t wish this path on anyone. It tears you apart from the inside out. Everything you thought you knew about yourself is violently stripped away. Nothing escapes the reckoning.

But in being torn down, I was forced to rebuild… slowly, honestly, from the ground up. And now I know what is real for me. I know what matters. Those are the things I choose to tend to now.

That’s why I’m publishing this today instead of waiting for the exact anniversary. Sixteen days doesn’t change the truth of any of this. What’s written here is just as real now as it will be then.

I am free.
I am here.
Now.

That is what matters.

I came out of this a different man. And for the first time in my life, I like who I am. For the first time, I am proud of who I am. I know what I’ve endured. I know the faith that carried me and continues to carry me. And I know the people who stood beside me when I couldn’t stand on my own.

To my wife and my sons: thank you. I love you.
To my mom and dad, my aunt, and my sister: thank you. I love you.

Peace. Because peace matters.

Amituofo
 ~ Buck