Member-only story
The Long Goodbye
I was dependent on Xanax for 11 years. In 2022, I finally quit.
I think a lot about how we mark time. About ritual. About constants. Not just recurring events — the Times Square ball drop, the World Cup, the endless parade of elections — but the daily reminders that another day has passed. Sunrise. Sunset. A morning run. A daily lunch break.
Maybe you have them: a cigarette, a standing phone call, a corner you pass on your commute, a favorite place to meet after your shift.
Just a shade over 11 years ago, I was driving from Dallas to my new home in Austin. I had just seen my beloved Buffalo Bills lose by 37 to the Dallas Cowboys. Along the way, I’d experienced an event I’d never had to endure before. (Not the loss; the Bills lost plenty back then.)
By the waning hours of that night, I would add another constant reminder of time’s progression, each day’s impermanence, and I kept it for quite some time.
Fear
It was November 13, 2011, and I was sitting in Metroplex traffic as the sun faded behind the downtown wall of glass. I recall a creeping sense of longing — to escape, to be home, to be done. An hour or so later, as darkness enveloped I-35 outside of Waco, I felt an unusual pain in my chest.
