Citation: Sdanger. "My Lovable Addiction: An Experience with Alprazolam (Xanax) (exp85241)". Erowid.org. Dec 25, 2013. erowid.org/exp/85241
Telling you the story of my xanax addiction requires me to rewind. I had dabbled with a decent selection of substances before alprazolam. My first experience with altered consciousness was alcohol, then weed. My life has never been the same since I smoked weed. Looking back, I feel a great loss of innocence accompanied my first puff of the magic green. I feel like a different person—for better or worse.
Perhaps these substances opened my mind. Perhaps now I am just more tolerant of drugs. What's probable is that these first experiences subject the typical user to a form of escapism, of receding from reality, of thinking differently. People with addictive personalities like myself enjoy these alterations of consciousness and our curiosity leads us to try new drugs to in effort to experience those first, and most memorable, drug highs.
I had tried Xanax a few times before I took it regularly. I liked it from the start—the complete elimination of any anxiety whatsoever, the clear-headedness, the natural confidence that set on with the drug.
The first time I tried it was on a Saturday at work. At the time, I worked at a local sandwich shop and Saturdays were painfully slow. Normally on slow days, I would wind up mopping the entire store to keep myself occupied, and to keep the boss happy. On this particular day a coworker of mine, J, took me to the back of the store in the morning.
Aside from working with me, J was also my connection. He had been a source of reliable opiates, various pills, chronic and 'pretendo' for months. I trusted him somewhat, but not completely given his rather dubious job as a drug dealer.
With J and I alone in the back, he held out his hand and had two white bars in his hand.
'What is it?' I asked.
'Xanax. Take one of these and you'll have a much better day,' he replied.
I had heard of xanax before, and had even been around people in the past who were high on xanax. They always seemed super relaxed, albeit a little spacey. J piqued my curiosity too much with those white bars in his hand (2 mg bars, come to find out later). I took one from his hand and popped it while he took one simultaneously.
I swallowed the pill on an empty stomach. It seemed almost too easy. I was skeptical if it would work, as I am perennially paranoid about letting the slightest hint of placebo influence my experience. Often, I will not acknowledge any symptoms until they are distinctly pronounced, just to save myself from hyping up any given drug.
I felt the xanax begin to take effect after maybe 15 minutes. It was a subtle onset, but became an almost overwhelming feeling of happiness. I remember that my first thought subsequent to the onset of the drug was, 'This is what I have needed all along.'
For the rest of my shift I was socially engaging with customers, not afraid to smile and be happy, cracked jokes and worked probably the hardest I ever have. Before I knew it, it was time for me to clock out. I could not believe it. I approached J and we talked a little, mainly I droned about how I just couldn't believe I was already done.
It was almost frightening once I came to realize how much time had passed by. I thought maybe I had blacked out in the back or wandered away psychologically or physically.
Now I know that herein lies the most absolute and palpable benefit of xanax: one simply lives in the moment while on the drug. No other thoughts are of any concern. Not of having to work a few more hours, not of upcoming tests, not of relationship difficulties, nothing. Xanax literally removes the ability to worry about anything, because the mind is focused only on the present. Because of this, the mind enjoys the present to such a degree that something great that happened 5 minutes ago is forgotten because the mind is enjoying the present too much to care.
I thanked J for my first xanax experience, and for months afterward would constantly inquire into his access to xanax. J became relatively unreliable, especially in getting me xanax. I probably was able to get around only 10 pills from him for the duration that we knew each other.
My strongest, most reliable xanax connection came through another coworker. I became acquainted with Frank on a clear spring night, eagerly anticipating buying the xanax and feeling its effects. It had been months since I last obtained a xanax from J. Although I was constantly searching for it, somehow it always eluded me.
Frank sold me 5 pills. I typically buy a small amount of anything the first time to make sure a dealer is legitimate. After I got my them and was driving away to my girlfriend's house, I popped a pill. I honestly cannot even remember the rest of the night, but I probably smoked weed with my girlfriend and got laid. Needless to say, it was a good night.
I now had a connection to fuel my xanax addiction. Realistically, I was addicted the first time I took the drug. Finding a dealer who had xanax was the hardest part and became an obsession. I never physically craved it or got withdraws, but my psychological addiction was much more powerful, and much more dangerous. In retrospect, I fell in love with xanax immediately.
I began to purchase xanax from Frank regularly, and it got to the point where I was buying 30 to 40 pills (2 mg) from him at a time. Oddly enough, I never took more than a couple pills at a time. I always felt satisfied with the high that 1-3 would give me and never even considered taking more.
Most xanax experiences—at least the good ones—are not memorable. I always tell people that xanax gives you the best time that you won't remember. My memories of the 5 months that I took xanax daily are so fragmented and disjointed that it's sad now, looking back, that I basically lost 5 months of my life. That time is virtually gone, never to be recovered from my memory. The only consolation is I know I enjoyed it immensely.
One time I drove to Frank's house on a scorching summer day. I traveled across town to his house, so absorbed by excitement to get the xanax that this particular instance is so keenly memorable to me. Frank only had 10 pills for me, but I was still appreciative, happy, content, anything. I just wanted to pop the pill and coast through the rest of the day.
I got my order, and left his house. I was so excited that I must have been trembling. I opened the Ziploc bag too quickly and the pills flew all over my car. This was when I began to realize the urge, the addiction that I had developed for xanax. I searched my car desperately for the pills—any pill—to put in my mouth. I found one and swallowed them immediately without any liquid. I then recovered 5 more pills and put them in the bag, which, after the one I had just taken, left 3 pills sitting somewhere in my car.
The next month so became a maddening search to find those pills. If there was a day I ran out of xanax and Frank could not be reached, I tore my car apart looking for those other pills. Eventually I found 2 of them, but cannot even remember finding them or taking them afterward. I only remember finding the last one, taking the last one—the last xanax pill I have taken.
Losing those pills in the car highlighted the extent of my addiction for me. That I would literally tear my car apart looking for a tiny pill made me realize how desperate I was to get high on xanax. I would become so desperate and frustrated in my search that it was almost emotionally shattering.
One day Frank called me to let me know he re-uped on his xanax. For some reason I didn't answer. I looked at my illuminated phone and decided to ignore his call, to ignore him, to eschew xanax once and for all. He left a message, which I promptly deleted. I then had the whim to delete Frank from my phone, to erase any trace of him so that when I came down off my xanax high I could no longer feed my addiction. I deleted Frank from my life and have not spoken to him again, nor has he attempted to call me again since that day last year.
The days following were miserable. I was depressed, anxious and apoplectic at myself for deleting Frank's number. I thought of every scenario in which acquiring xanax was feasible. I thought of driving across town 45 minutes to Frank's house unannounced with the probability that he would have nothing to sell me and would tell me to fuck off. I thought of breaking into a pharmacy. I researched formulating fraudulent prescriptions. I considered going to a psychiatrist and feigning severe anxiety for a legitimate prescription. All of these ultimately became just imaginary situations, and I never succumbed to my urge to seek out xanax in such ridiculous ways. I realized everyday that I was just indulging my addiction by thinking about such things and never acted on it.
Surprisingly, for having taken xanax multiple times daily for several months, I had no physical withdraws. I think that my psychological addiction was just so strong, and my misery so pronounced after coming off, that any hint of a physical withdraw was dwarfed by the power of the psyche. I also continued to smoke weed nearly every day, and toking to the point where I was nearly cataleptic helped me deal with my cravings. Most nights I would spend with my girlfriend, smoking copious weed and getting shitfaced drunk until I would pass out.
One day at work, probably 2 months since I came off xanax, I decided to go search my car again for the drug. I had searched so extensively and exhaustively for the 2 months prior that I came to believe I had, at some point in time, found the pill and simply could not remember, as is often the case with xanax. This conclusion did not deter me from still searching my car in hopes that I would find the pill.
I was the only one at work, which enabled me the luxury of doing whatever I wanted. I nonchalantly went outside and opened my car door. I then moved the driver's seat forward to begin my search, something I had done dozens of times before. And there it was! Sitting right under the seat, in a location I must have surveyed, scrutinized, and combed over at least 20 times before. The pill was conspicuously in the middle of the floor under the driver seat. I picked it up and pondered my next action.
Before this, I had come to feel that I had conquered my xanax addiction, it having been 2 months since my last pill. But the fact that I had made this decision to search my car, and that finding and consuming xanax was still so prevalent in my thoughts after 2 months, demonstrates that clearly I was still addicted.
I thought briefly about disposing of the pill. I thought that I didn't need it, that I was done with xanax. As I said, these thoughts were brief. I clocked out for lunch, locked the place up, and drove to my girlfriend's house. She wasn't home, but lived close and had an ample supply of alcohol. I was going to make this xanax experience worth it.
I broke the bar in half and drank 2 beers. The rest of that day blurs into what is now my last xanax high. I remember being so happy when I felt its onset. I felt that this drug was a necessity, that this is how I should think. I spoke freely to a coworker and he hooked me up with a gram of medical weed. My jovial mood rubbed off on everyone I spoke to, and I ingratiated myself in conversing with anyone around. I talked openly about everything, and made people feel comfortable in doing the same. I was a gregarious and satisfied person on xanax. I was happy on xanax.
It has now been a year since that last time I took it. The desire is still strong, and if it was presented before me right now I would find it terribly difficult to turn down. The power of its psychological hold on me is inexplicable. I can only look back with nostalgia on those days I allowed myself to rationalize such an extreme addiction.
The effects of any drug are hard to explain, hard to convey. The happiness that I achieved on xanax is perhaps what I am addicted to the most. Even now, I feel as though I will never be as accepting of life as when I was high on xanax. I miss that simple contentedness with which I viewed the world, the peace of mind and free-spirited disposition that inherited my persona. But I have since moved on, now assuredly past the most severe urges to take xanax. Despite this marked progress, I perhaps will always desire the uplifting and carefree effects of xanax.
COPYRIGHTS: All reports are copyright Erowid and you agree not to download or analyze the report data without contacting Erowid Center and receiving permission first.
Experience Reports are the writings and opinions of the individual authors who submit them.
Some of the activities described are dangerous and/or illegal and none are recommended by Erowid Center.