Гидазепам (диамидазепам)

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His Story
THE numbers on the telephone seemed to melt together as I struggled to dial my own number. The five pills I had taken earlier were now reaching their peak. As I held onto the public telephone to keep myself from falling, I heard mom’s voice: “Hello. Who’s this?”
“It’s me,” I slurred, using whatever concentration I could muster up. “I won’t be coming home tonight; I’ll be staying with a friend.” Every word was a struggle. My tongue felt as if it weighed fifty pounds.
“Oh, no!” mom gasped. “You’ve taken pills again! You’re stoned!”
I hung up the phone and staggered to my car. I wasn’t spending the night with a friend. Instead, I was going to drive to the beach. As I drove I found myself on the wrong side of the road—on a major highway. The oncoming traffic just missed me as I drove over the divider and onto the road leading to the beach. I parked the car and fell asleep until the next day.
That is just one incident showing how alcoholism almost cost me my life. ‘But what does taking pills have to do with being an alcoholic?’ you ask. Well, at the time I didn’t understand the connection either. But I was to find out—the hard way.
First, let me give you a little background: I had started taking pills when I was a teenager. I began by sneaking tranquilizers—mom always had plenty of them around. A couple of years later, a friend at work introduced me to secobarbital, a very strong sedative. Now I could take fewer pills to get the same effect. Oh, mom and dad had warned me about heroin and marijuana. But the pills I was taking weren’t that dangerous—or so I thought.
Within a year I was severely addicted, taking thirty pills a day.
It wasn’t that I wanted to be high all the time. I needed the pills just to function. If I didn’t take them, I would become extremely nervous and anxious, shaking uncontrollably.
After I had smashed up several cars and been arrested, my parents sent me to a hospital for treatment. There I was slowly detoxified. The suffering I went through was indescribable. There were hallucinations, shaking, extreme and unreasonable fears. For instance, since my girl friend didn’t have a phone and I couldn’t receive calls, at a prearranged time I would call her at a public telephone. But I was always afraid she wouldn’t be there—I mean extremely afraid.
Well, after about three weeks I was released from the hospital, ready to start anew. ‘My troubles are over now,’ I thought to myself. Actually, my troubles were far from over.