I ran out of benzos. I'd been taking mostly Klonopin, sometimes Xanax. When my supply ran out, I began vomiting profusely, I couldn't walk straight, my heart was pounding rapidly, I was dizzy, and I had terrible cravings. I would have taken Valium, or even an Ativan. An insect, a hornet or a wasp, was flying around my room, buzzing loudly. I lifted my head and looked all over the room, but there was no sign of it. It wouldn't stop buzzing. I was petrified. I hated bees and wasps. I searched everywhere for my insect killer spray. I couldn't find it, so I ran downstairs to the basement looking for it, and it wasn't there. Back in my room, the insect was still humming in my ears. I picked up a large book to hit it with. The cat became frightened and ran. The hornet was so close it was at the back of my neck. But I wondered why I could never see it. I was scared shitless. Then the thought occurred to me that perhaps this was a hallucination. Why did I never see it? When it was at my back again, I pronounced to myself, "This is a hallucination, it'll stop." The noise stopped. Then I heard it again. "Hallucination," I repeated. And it stopped.   

I called my neighbor Joe and asked him to come over and look at my car. I had tried to go somewhere but found my vehicle to be hopelessly disabled. Joe came over, and I let him drive it. "I don't know what's wrong with it," he said, shaking his head, baffled. "It's running okay," he added. I started throwing up again. I vomited so hard I thought I damaged my vocal cords. Joe threw me a wastebasket. I thought I might choke and die but continued to puke up water and bile. I told Joe to call 9-11. 

I threw up in the ambulance all the way to ECMC's waiting room. I hoped I was not last to be called in the triage. People arrived with multiple gunshot wounds and stab wounds. I went outside to smoke my ecig, which was still in my pocket. It was raining gently. I needed money for the vending machine and I only had a twenty. A man walked out, and I asked him if he could break my bill. He continued walking to his car, and just when I thought he was gone, he turned around and approached me. The man appeared to be Puerto Rican. He started counting out singles from his pocket. I kept telling him I'd settle for whatever he had, but he kept counting, trying to produce change equal to a twenty. A man came out from the waiting room and saw the two standing in the darkness and rain. "Man, what happened to you?" he said to the Puerto Rican man, pointing to the cast on his arm, where his hand and part of his arm were missing. "AAAAAAAaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh...." my friend answered, shaking his head. "...fucked up those niggers." The man laughed and helped him count his money. There were fourteen singles. I grabbed them, handed the man my twenty, and said, "Thank you, sir," and ran back into the waiting room. I slid my two bills into the vending machine and got a bottle of Wild Cherry Diet Dr. Pepper. I wanted Ginger Ale.  

In the Intensive Care Unit, I lay on a cot, where doctors kept coming in and out. People were taking my pulse, my blood pressure, and they gave me a heart monitor and IV. "What is the trouble?" a resident asked me. I was slow to answer. Why was I there? "Oh," I said. "I was taking a lot of benzos." "How many were you taking?" he asked. I said I didn't know. "I would take one, then another, then another, I chewed on pills all day, like a fiend, and I didn't count." Okay, he said, and I heard a man, a doctor, on the phone, giving instructions to somebody. The only word that stood out in my mind was, "Valium." I was so glad. I smoked my ecig in the ER when no one was around.  

I was told it would be six days before I was considered detoxed. When I got the chance, I sent my seventeen-year-old son a message: "In ECMC." My mother brought him to visit me almost every day. I appreciated their support, and that neither one of them scolded, berated, or confronted me. When it was time to leave, I was picked up by Joe. There was a tray of turkey and gravy at my bedside. I couldn't eat it, I had no appetite because of my illness. Joe was happy to devour the stuff on my behalf, while I guarded the door.  

Once I was home, I thought about it, and I knew I could never use benzos again. Not even one. I could not let myself ever go through something like that again. It was a hard lesson, but I learned it the hard way.