A crutch and a $10 co-pay.

(Originally published 2/19/2006)

I’ve been through many things in my life. My best friend blew his head off when I was fifteen. I had heart surgery when I was sixteen. I had to drop out of college when I was twenty in the midst of my parents’ bitter divorce. I was crushed when I parted ways with the only man I feel like I ever loved. I walked away carrying my heart in my hands. He walked away carrying nothing but a scotch. To date, I have lived through four Republican administrations and only two Democratic ones. I’ve been so poor that I had to sell all of my CDs in order to eat and I still wake up every day and wonder why they cancelled "My So-Called Life."

I look back on a turbulent first 30 years and I do not cry with regret and sorrow. I pat myself on the back. Many other people have made complete messes of their lives and blamed far less severe circumstances (child stars from the 80’s for example). I am not addicted to drugs or sleeping in the street. I am not in jail or living in a trailer in Missouri arguing with my roommate over whose turn it is to cook the crystal meth. I think, under the circumstances, that I have done quite alright with my life. But many within my circle dare to argue that I’m not leading a survivor’s life, that I have a distinct and disruptive crutch to help me cope with the pains of my past. What makes them think this? A little blessing, a miracle, a good friend of mine, a pill called Xanax.

When in crowded places like bars or on the subway or at Nordstrom Rack during a shoe sale I feel edgy, restricted, confined, and smothered. This happens to me often in Chicago. Places here can be so packed with people that your only shot at moving is to sprout wings and fly above the herd of people who have you pinned in the corner or up against the wall. These feelings first overwhelmed me about a month after I relocated here. I was on a crowded Brown Line train when suddenly I felt as if my heart had stopped beating. I couldn’t move not only from fear but from there being nowhere to move to. There were too many f*cking people in my way.

Obviously, I didn’t die and was not having a heart attack. I was symptomatic of what doctors have assured me to be an actual disorder: anxiety disorder.

Xanax is the pill that my licensed physician has prescribed for me. It is filled lawfuly in a state-accredited pharmacy by a trained and qualified pharmacist. It is used to treat anxiety disorder and is to be taken upon the initial onset of a panic attack to calm my nerves. It is arguably one of the best things that mankind has ever invented, second only to the internet or possibly over-the-counter teeth whitener. I take it as prescribed, "as needed."

So you can imagine my frustration when I’m having cocktails with friends on a Saturday night and the crowd gets so overgrown that I feel as if I might need "my medicine," only to have my friends cluck their tongues in disapproval and cast judging glances my way, as if I’m a pregnant Courtney Love doing heroine. The label clearly warns against the consumption of alcohol and taking Xanax. However, I never need one unless I’m in a crowded room. Bars, as most people know, tend to be crowded. So, as I often do when given directions that just don’t seem to suit me, I persevere and make up my own rules.

"What the h*ll are you doing?" my friend JC recently asked me, having seen me discreetly pull a Xanax from my pocket, place it beautifully on my tongue, and wash it down with a sip from my Vodka Tonic.

"It helps take the edge off," I said in defense, so used to this line of hardened and judgemental questioning from unforgiving friends, friends who refuse to acknowledge my medically diagnosed disorder.

"You’ve drank nearly a bottle of vodka!" he screamed. "Honestly, is there any edge left?"

Victimized, feeling as if no one will ever understand the pain I must endure as a forgotten, cast-aside victim of panic disorder, I look away from him in shame. But, being the survivor that I am, I endure. I move on.

Another friend of mine’s mother is also on Xanax. Notoriously off her rocker (seriously, the woman boasts that she’s "got papers" to prove her nuttiness), she gets her prescription refilled every month despite not needing the pill everyday of the month. She keeps them in a lockbox in her home, like a squirrel hoarding nuts in a tree. Although I am not a saver by nature (see checking account), I took to this concept and now do the same. I do not need the pill everyday, but since it only costs ten dollars a month and I do have a prescription for it, I might as well get it filled and stockpile them for a rainy day. What sort of horrid rainy day would call for a hundred or so Xanax I cannot even imagine. Possibly a nuclear attack or Jeb Bush winning the White House in 2008.

Another issue I have with people who judge me for my relationship with my beloved little pill is that every time I have the slightest lapse in good judgement, a battlcry goes out: Were you on Xanax? If I lose a coat check ticket or get lost in Target, the assumption is always that I was "hopped up" on my little pink friend. I would like to blame most of my stupidity on something beyond my genetic make-up, but I can’t. I’m just dumb sometimes. Well, most times.

If I were a diabetic and injected my insuline in front of others, no one would utter a sigh of disapproval. So leave me the f*ck alone. It’s a disorder, for God’s sake. Seriously, it’s in medical books. Go ahead. Look it up. Jerks.