Xanax Detox: More Than Just Irritability

I was prescribed Xanax for severe Generalized Anxiety Disorder. It helped me function at first. But early on—and I mean right away—my doctor prescribed me 8 mg of extended release Xanax per day. That’s not a dosage I slowly worked up to. That was the starting point.

I didn’t know any better. I just trusted my doctor. I didn’t even realize how doped up I was. Looking back, I can see the toll it took—on my memory, my clarity, my emotions. So much of the past ten years is a blur. There are conversations I forgot, events that vanished from my mind, and emotional numbness I couldn’t name until it was gone.

Worse, my prescribing doctor never checked in. Never adjusted the dose. Never followed up. I was the one who tapered myself down to 6 mg, then to 4 mg. My insurance eventually forced me to switch to short-release Xanax, which brought its own complications. But still—no oversight. I was alone in it.

The one person who did help was my psychologist. She was amazing. She taught me how to manage my stress, how to regulate emotions, how to function without being completely dependent on a pill. But unfortunately, after a decade of support, I lost her due to a career change. I was terrified of seeking new help, so I just kept seeing the same prescribing doctor—until he finally retired.

That ended up being a blessing.

Because when I got my new doctor, she told me something that no one else had the courage to say:

“I won’t take your case unless you’re willing to taper off this medication.”

And I was. I wanted out. I was ready for a new life. I had already taken myself down to 4 mg, but I needed a doctor who would partner with me—who wouldn’t just hand me refills and walk away. Over the past year, with her support, I’ve made it down to 1.5 mg.

Reality Distorted

But what “lies in the fine print”—what even the internet only vaguely warns you about—is how terrifying some of the withdrawal symptoms can be. Yes, I expected irritability. I braced for that. But what I didn’t expect was the disassociation.

And I mean full-blown, “what-is-reality” level disassociation.

The Reality Fracture No One Warned Me About

It hit me one day while sitting on my bed. I knew I might be scheduled to work at Sedona Taphouse, but suddenly, I couldn’t even remember if I really worked there. Was that a dream? Was that a different life? Was anything around me real?

I stared at my phone, trying to text someone. But who? Who do you text when your brain is screaming:

“Is any of this real?”

“Do you even exist?”

My memories felt untrustworthy. My body felt foreign. I gripped onto myself like a life raft. I had never felt fear like that—not even from the anxiety I was originally prescribed Xanax for. This was another level.

And it doesn’t hit like a seizure or an obvious panic attack. It sneaks in. It distorts. Sometimes it’s light. Sometimes it’s paralyzing. And it comes in waves. No warning. Just questions that shouldn’t even be questions:

Is this my house?

Is this my dog?

Am I real?

Am I safe?

How I Learned to Cope

Through trial, error, and necessity, I’ve developed tools to get through those episodes. They don’t always stop the symptoms entirely—but they bring me back to myself.

1. I state my name. Out loud.

“My name is Annie Edwards. I am safe.”

It grounds me. I say it over and over until the fog starts to lift.

2. I wrote myself a letter.

It reminds me of who I am:

You have a dog named Princess.

You work at Sedona Taphouse.

You are real.

You are safe.

You are loved.

I keep it near my bed and read it during disassociative episodes.

3. I rely on my senses.

Touch. Smell. Temperature. Texture.

I run cold water on my hands.

I wash my face.

I light a candle.

I eat something crunchy or sour.

These things tell my body: “You’re here. This is real.”

4. I do “real” things.

Take a shower.

Put on clean clothes.

Walk outside.

Text a trusted friend.

Listen to music that makes me feel something.

Pet my dog.

These activities connect me back to me.

5. I told people.

This was hard. But it made all the difference.

I told my mom. I told close friends. That way, if I have an episode and I text them something weird like, “Am I real?”—they understand.

They remind me of the truth when I can’t access it myself.

6. I’m learning to give myself grace.

One of the most powerful things my new doctor told me when I sent her an email concerned about it was:

You have to give yourself a little grace. Your body relied on Xanax for a very long time to handle even daily stress. Now it’s adjusting to life without it—and that’s a huge shift. It’s okay to not feel okay sometimes.

That gave me permission to stop blaming myself. To stop expecting myself to bounce back instantly. And to understand that healing takes time—and compassion.

Why I’m Telling You This

If you’re going through this—or something like it—I want you to know:

You’re not crazy. You’re not broken. And you are not alone.

This is withdrawal.

This is your brain and body recalibrating after years of artificial chemical support.

It’s painful.

It’s confusing.

But it is survivable.

No one told me about the reality fracture that can happen while detoxing from Xanax. So I’m telling you.

Not to scare you.

But to prepare you.

To equip you.

And to remind you that you are real. You are safe. And you are loved.

Even when it doesn’t feel like it.

Even when your brain tells you otherwise.

Even when the mirror looks foreign.

You’re still here.

And you’re getting stronger.

Every single day.