When the Fog Rolled In

I was prescribed Clonazepam for panic disorder when I was 25. At first, it helped. I could work, sleep, talk to people again. But what I didn’t realize was how fast things would spiral. My first dose? Four milligrams a day, extended-release. No buildup. No gradual start.

I didn’t question it. Why would I? He was the doctor. I didn’t know I was drifting—slower thoughts, blurry memory, dulled emotions. I forgot whole conversations. Some birthdays. Whole seasons. It’s like those years just folded in on themselves.

Worse, I was never monitored. No check-ins. No adjustments. When my insurance forced me onto fast-acting pills, I navigated the changes alone. I tapered myself down over the years—from 4 to 3, then 2.5. Eventually, I was holding steady at 2 mg when my original doctor retired.

That’s when I met Dr. Jensen.

She didn’t dance around it. “I’ll take you on,” she said, “but only if you’re ready to taper further.”

I was. I had to be. Something in me wanted to feel *awake* again.

Over twelve months, we worked down to 1 mg. Slowly. Carefully. But nothing—not online forums, not pamphlets—prepared me for what came next.

Not the tension. Not the irritability.

“The unreality.”

It started in my apartment. One morning, sitting on the edge of my bed, I suddenly wasn’t sure if I lived there. My bookshelf looked unfamiliar. My own voice sounded off. I picked up my phone to text someone—anyone—but I couldn’t remember who I trusted enough to say:

“Am I real?”

Memories felt slippery. My hands didn’t feel like mine. I wasn't anxious. I was "unmoored''. Nothing grounded me.

That kind of disassociation—no one warned me.

So I had to learn. Quickly.

Here’s what helps:

1. “Say my name out loud.”

“My name is Claire Foster. I am safe.” I repeat it until the ground feels real again.

2. “Write my truth.”

A short letter taped near my bed:

“You live here. You have a cat named Milo. You are loved.”

3. “Engage my senses.”

Cold water. Citrus scent. Spicy chips. These anchor me.

4. “Do something normal.”

Take a shower. Brush my teeth. Feed Milo. Text someone I trust.

5. “Let people in.”

I told my sister. My best friend. I told them that sometimes I forget what’s real. So when I text, “Is this my apartment?” they know how to answer.

6. “Give myself grace.”

Dr. Jensen once told me: “Your body depended on this drug for over a decade. It’s learning a new rhythm now. Let it stumble. Let it relearn.”

That one line gave me permission to stop beating myself up.To understand that recovery isn’t fast. It isn’t clean. It’s messy and confusing and beautiful.

Why am I sharing this?

Because no one told me the scariest part might be questioning whether your world is even real. So I’m telling you.

Not to scare you.

But to prepare you.

To say: “You’re not broken. You’re healing. You’re not crazy. You’re recalibrating. You’re not alone.”

And you are still here. Even when your mind plays tricks. Even when your memories slip.

You are here.

And you’re getting stronger.

Every single day.