In the Fog: My Journey Through Xanax Withdrawal

I never imagined that something prescribed to help me would end up stealing nearly a decade of my life.

When I was first diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder, I was desperate for relief. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t eat, and daily life felt like an impossible mountain. So when my doctor prescribed Xanax, I welcomed it. I didn’t question the dosage, didn’t hesitate. I just wanted the fear to stop.

But now, looking back, I wish I had asked more questions.

I was prescribed 8 mg of extended-release Xanax per day—from day one. That’s not a dosage I worked up to. That was the starting point. And I didn’t know how unusual that was. I assumed it was standard. I assumed my doctor knew best. What I didn’t realize is how deep into dependence I was walking.

At first, the medication helped. I could go to work. I could talk to people again. But slowly—almost too subtly to notice—my world began to blur. My memory became spotty. Conversations vanished. Important events—birthdays, holidays, even goodbyes—slipped through my fingers like smoke. I started to feel emotionally flat, as if everything around me was happening in black and white.

Worse than that? My doctor never followed up. Not once.

He never checked in to see how I was doing. Never adjusted the dosage. Never asked if I was feeling like myself. He just refilled the prescription again and again. I was left to manage it on my own.

Eventually, I started reducing the dose myself—from 8 mg to 6 mg, then down to 4 mg. But it was slow. Lonely. Confusing. When my insurance forced me to switch to short-release Xanax, things got messier. There were new withdrawal patterns, spikes in anxiety, and crashes that felt like I was being dragged underwater.

Still, no one helped. No doctor asked.

The one person who stood by me through it all was my psychologist. She wasn’t the one prescribing medication, but she saved me in a different way. She gave me tools. Real, practical tools to manage stress, to understand my triggers, and to function without being totally dependent on pills. For nearly ten years, she helped me build my emotional muscles.

And then, she left. A career change. Just like that, she was gone.

I was too scared to find a new therapist, so I just stayed with the same prescribing doctor. Until he retired.

Strangely, that turned out to be a turning point.

My new doctor took one look at my chart and said something no one else had the courage to say:

“I can’t take your case unless you’re willing to taper off this medication.”

And for the first time, I felt hope.

Because deep down, I was ready. I had already brought myself down to 4 mg. I just didn’t know how to go further without someone to guide me. Over the past year, under her care, I’ve tapered down to 1.5 mg. It’s been slow. It’s been agonizing. But it’s also been the most freeing journey of my life.

What no one prepared me for, though, was what happened next.



The Disassociation No One Warned Me About

It didn’t feel like panic.

It didn’t feel like anxiety.

It felt like slipping out of my own skin.

One afternoon, I was sitting on my bed, trying to remember if I had work that day. But suddenly, I couldn’t even remember if I really had a job. I stared at my hands. Were they mine? Was this my life? Was anything around me real?

It wasn’t a panic attack—it was something darker. More surreal. I wasn’t just anxious. I was disassociated.

I’d read about withdrawal symptoms, but no one talked about this. This terrifying fracture between me and reality. There were moments where I questioned everything: Was this my home? Was this my dog? Was I alive?

Those episodes came in waves. Sometimes light, sometimes absolutely paralyzing. They didn’t come with a warning. They just arrived. And in those moments, all I could do was hold on.



How I Fought My Way Back

It wasn’t easy, but over time, I developed ways to bring myself back:

1. I speak my truth—out loud.

I say my name. Over and over. Like a lifeline.

> “My name is Annie Edwards. I am real. I am safe.”

It feels strange at first, but it anchors me. It reminds me who I am.

2. I wrote myself a letter.

In that letter, I reminded myself of the facts:

> You have a dog named Princess.

You work at Sedona Taphouse.

You are loved.

You are safe.

You are real.

I keep it next to my bed and read it during episodes. It’s my flashlight in the fog.

3. I ground myself through my senses.

I splash cold water on my face.

I chew something sour or crunchy.

I light a candle and focus on the smell.

These small physical cues bring me back into the moment.

4. I do ordinary things.

I take a shower.

I walk outside.

I hug my dog.

I listen to music that makes me feel.

Even when I don’t want to, I do them. Because they reconnect me to myself.

5. I reached out.

This was the hardest step, but the most important.

I told my mom. I told a few close friends. So when I text something like, “Am I real?”—they know how to respond.

They don’t panic. They remind me who I am.

6. I give myself grace.

One day, during a rough episode, I emailed my doctor in fear.

She responded with a line I will never forget:

> “You have to give yourself grace. Your body relied on Xanax for years. This is a massive shift. It’s okay to not feel okay.”



And with those words, I finally stopped blaming myself.



Why I’m Sharing This

Because maybe you’re going through something like this.

Maybe you're scared.

Maybe no one warned you about this part.

So let me be the one to say it:

You are not broken.

You are not crazy.

And you are not alone.

This is what healing can look like. It’s messy. It’s frightening. But it is possible.

You are real.

You are safe.

You are loved.

Even when it doesn’t feel like it.

Even when your brain lies to you.

Even when you feel like you’ve disappeared—

You’re still here.

And you’re getting stronger.

Every single day.