For nearly 40 years, a single pill kept me alive. Klonopin. To some, just a benzo. A crutch. A dirty word. To me—it was breath. Balance. Sanity. I was diagnosed with dystonia in childhood: a brutal, incurable neurological disorder that contorts your muscles into excruciating knots without warning. Then came akathisia—pure inner torment. Imagine being roasted alive inside your own body and unable to sit still for one second without going mad. That’s akathisia. From 1985 to 2024, Klonopin—2 to 4 milligrams daily—was my reprieve. Not a cure. A leash on the monster. It let me walk. Think. Create. Love. Be human. Then it was gone. The shift wasn’t sudden, but it was savage. Doctors started disappearing. Refills slowed. The whispers grew louder: “Long-term benzo use.” “Addiction.” “No such thing as safe.” Suddenly, I wasn’t a patient. I was a red flag. A liability. Then, cold turkey. What followed wasn’t withdrawal. It was obliteration. My body turned on itself. The pain was primal,...