Dazed and Klon-fused: Crash Landing onto Psychotropic Island

In 2003, I moved to Cincinnati to study art at the University of Cincinnati's College of Design, Architecture, Art, and Planning (DAAP). At 21, I was convinced I was too mature to live in a dorm, but I didn't know a soul in "the big city," so I rented a one-bedroom by myself.

The students of DAAP, with their pantone skinny jeans and sculptural hairstyles, intimidated me with their apparent confidence. I missed the first day of my first class because I walked in, took one look at the people, and assumed that I had mistakenly walked into a graduate-level studio. I was actually three years older than everyone there.

Under the stress of the demanding Fine Arts program and difficulty making friends / adjusting to city life my first year at DAAP, I started having regular panic attacks and reluctantly started taking psychiatric medications.

Enter Klonopin.

Also known as Clonazepam, Klonopin is an anticonvulsant muscle relaxer used to treat epilepsy, spasms, and severe anxiety disorders. Prescribing such a strong, habit-forming medication was probably a mistake, but my doctor suggested it as a last resort, given my lack of response to Wellbutrin, Zoloft, Celexa, etc. and a horrible antidepressant/sleep aid called Remeron that gave me a migraine that lasted a month (that's another story).

Klonopin worked, in a way. I didn't have panic attacks. The problem was, I didn't have consciousness, either. Taking the drug allowed me to attend my classes, but I sat through them unproductively, more focused on the sensation of my blood cells floating through my veins than on gestalt theory. During a lecture, I fell asleep and out of my chair and was confronted by the concerned professor about my disinterest in his subject. For the one academic quarter I took Klonopin, my grades dropped from A's to C's. I couldn't remember what I'd done an hour earlier and busted my lips and knees tripping up the stairs on a daily basis. 

Klonopin also allowed me to vegetate at social events, too. My then-boyfriend (who has the patience of a saint) loved to throw parties, and I would pop my "mother's little helper" and then crumple in the corner like Milla Jovovich in Dazed and Confused, that heavy-lidded, strung-out girl who's always hanging around but is definitely not present.

After a difficult withdrawal process, I regained consciousness. Currently, I take no prescriptions. I still struggle with anxiety, a lot, especially in social situations. But I have been able to channel my daily anxiety toward productive goals. Other than a bad back and diminishing eyesight, the side effects of my new medication—drawing—are fantastic.