A Former Cop's Battle With Benzodiazepines

Note: This post departs from my usual writing to offer a personal essay in accordance with Psychology Today’s Personal Perspectives.

While a nervous breakdown isn’t officially a medical term, it does well to describe an intolerable state of emotional and physical stress. In 2009, I experienced one as a consequence of dysfunctional coping mechanisms I'd long used to protect myself or escape from uncomfortable changes, challenges, and setbacks in my life. Interestingly, it also came several years after exiting my police career.

As a former law enforcement officer, I quietly struggled with the loss of my police identity, friends, and mission. These elements had been so deeply embedded in my lifestyle and worldview that my new life without them often felt meaningless. I was also fighting the residual symptoms of occupational trauma, which led to sporadic panic attacks and an inclination to dangerous activities. Socially, my hyperarousal and old cultural habits were no longer appreciated or appropriate in a civilian context, all of which complicated a more permanent change in roles, routines, and expectations.

Although it’s not the purpose of this rumination to dive into the challenges I was facing, I would be remiss if I didn’t “admit them into evidence” or set the stage for what followed. At the time, I didn’t fully understand all the forces at play in my life. From core personality traits, adverse childhood experiences, and early maladaptive schemas to the occupational conditioning that reinforced maladaptive coping, I had become an inflexible adult who had trouble self-regulating and forming meaningful relationships.

It’s in hindsight that I can admit a more comprehensive approach for defining my own successful outcomes was in order. From patience and introspection to the “alphabet soup” of cognitive behavioral therapy, spiritual guidance, mentorship, coaching, and peer support—all would have helped me build on and utilize my strengths. Even though I didn’t pursue these pathways as prevention or intervention strategies, my nervous breakdown should have been a catalyst for putting me into range. From there, it would have been a matter of choosing which way I wanted to go for reflection, healing, and rebooting my life.

Instead, I was thrust into the medical model (or “disease-based” approach) of mental health care that undervalued the psychosocial and sociocultural aspects of my suffering. Moreover, there was no support for the notion that suffering is normal and that not all significant problems we encounter in life can be solved. Rather, my treatment consisted of multiple diagnoses along with a cascade of prescription drugs that led to a decade of psychotropic polypharmacy. These “illnesses” ushered in a cocktail of antipsychotics, anxiolytics, anticonvulsants, sedatives, and stimulants—many of them prescribed concurrently—with the aim of helping me sleep, reducing my anxiety, and stabilizing my moods.

On one hand, these labels didn’t help me understand my behavior (or motivate me to make changes) as much as they made me question what was ever real or true about myself, my career, or my relationships. On the other, I experienced medication-related adverse effects, most significantly from the long-term use of a benzodiazepine. At the outset of treatment, I was not informed by prescribers that this medication was designed to be a temporary solution. In fact, the narrative presented to me was that I would likely need to be on it for life. Moreover, there were no warnings about side effects, concomitant drug use, cross-tolerance, dependence, and acute or protracted withdrawal.

As a result, I stumbled through the next ten years of my life oblivious to the overall negative trajectory the effects of this drug would take on me. I became increasingly anxious, irritable, angry, and paranoid, and experienced a strong proclivity for risk-taking and suicidal ideation. I eventually started to abuse alcohol to relieve pain and anxiety symptoms—not knowing they were drug tolerance or interdose withdrawal-related—until I could pop pills at night to knock myself out. All to start over again the next day.

To make matters worse, logic and good judgment took a back seat, which led to a revolving door of jobs and intimate relationships, and, on several occasions, nearly landed me behind the “other” side of the jail bars. My periodic suggestion to prescribers that a higher default level of symptoms was somehow connected to the medication I was taking was dismissed as psychosomatic issues brought on by a lack of resilience. In one instance, I was advised that I was “not working hard enough” in my pursuit to get better.

Finally, in 2019, I was forced off my 2mg daily dose of clonazepam as a result of a personal move out of state. The state regulatory landscape that governed medication-assisted treatment did not allow for the maintenance of the two scheduled drugs I was being prescribed (the other being a stimulant). Consequently, I was deprescribed the benzodiazepine with directions for a two-week taper. With that, there was no discussion about what I could expect or the type of support I would need. It was simply a matter of having a “good knife” to cut pills.

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Although I survived that event, the torment I experienced is difficult to convey in a paragraph. It's equally challenging to capture my protracted condition which continues to disrupt my daily functioning some four years later. As an alternative, my fellow Psychology Today contributor, Christopher Lane offers an excellent overview of what many of us go through in his posts, “Benzodiazepine Withdrawal Tied to Serious Long-Term Harms,” and “Medicating Normal: A Film Review.”

Ironically, my journey toward awareness, support, and hope didn’t come from the medical doctors, nurses, chiropractors, physical therapists, neurologists, and rheumatologists—all of whom I visited for unexplained chronic pain, cognitive impairment, and neuromuscular dysfunction. Rather, it came from an insatiable online pursuit which led me to a benzodiazepine support group, a nonprofit advocacy organization, and, finally, the “Ashton Manual.”

Perhaps the real tragedy of my story here is that my original, underlying problems were never addressed because they were lost to an iatrogenic illness. In fact, it wasn’t until a few years ago that I had the mental and emotional capacity to start unpacking the past and launch a personal wellness campaign that fit my individual needs. It’s a tragedy that I also believe begs a larger “prescription” for awareness and advocacy.

Little is (scientifically) known about the adverse effects of benzodiazepine exposure in the law enforcement community. No large-scale empirical studies have been published on its prevalence nor are cops an identified subgroup within the medical literature. What is generally known about the dangers of unsafe prescribing, use, and deprescribing stems from patient accounts and the clinical research on military populations (as a duty of care issue) and the civilian population (as a public health issue).

Nevertheless, I believe law enforcement officers are worthy of specific study, especially as it relates to prevention and treatment efforts. As a paramilitary profession, they are subject to a number of occupational hazards and risks that go beyond the scope of what the general public experiences. As “civilian soldiers” they live a confused life of dual missions and identities, often stuck between the human problems of both worlds. This dynamic also carries implications for police veterans who, upon exit, may struggle with the residue of their career while also navigating the adjustments associated with a post-service life. All factors, of course, that can land cops in the behavioral health system.

Granted, my experience is not representative of all who are prescribed benzodiazepines, nor does it represent the practices of all prescribers. There are also wonderful professionals and organizations in the wellness industry doing a very difficult job and doing it ethically. In fact, I owe much of where I am today to expert counseling by a clinician who wasn’t interested in just checking a box. I’m also not suggesting that psychiatric medications aren’t helpful to people who are suffering. Rather, I wish to underscore the importance of patient education, informed consent, and safe deprescribing practices in the pursuit of officer wellness. The totality of challenges over a cop’s life course demands it.

Note: The information in this post is for educational purposes only and is not intended to provide clinical or legal advice.

Copyright © Brian A. Kinnaird. All rights reserved.