I hate flying. According to my doctor, my fear is the result of a ‘situational panic disorder’, a diagnosis that took 60 seconds to reach. Four years ago, to remedy this fear, he prescribed me Xanax, a drug I didn’t know anything about. At least not beyond the fact it worked. I’d also been told that doctors were increasingly hesitant to prescribe it – and other Benzodiazepines, for that matter – though as a sufferer of shaky hands and unbearable nerves, flying without a triple digit heart rate was my only concern.
The doctor told me Xanax was effective in relieving the symptoms of anxiety. He was right. A single pill was paint thinner for my nerves. Half an hour after my dosage, lift off was merely a precursor to whatever I was eating for dinner that night. I could navigate the high skies with complacency usually reserved for seasoned flyers, and getting on and off planes became a completely normal thing for me.
An example of infographics used to spread addiction propaganda.
Though all the magical benefits of Xanax weren’t without consequence. Total complacency was a very addictive concept, and when it came time to quit, I struggled. It took a clinical tapering process and one or two failed attempts before I was free of its clasp. Yet once I quit, I never looked back. It was then I realised Xanax had left me with a stamp I couldn’t scrub clean. The anxiety that was once specific to flying had permeated through everyday life. It was no longer a situational beast, but rather a widespread plague.
Like anyone with anxiety, dealing with the illness was a full time job. Though I moonlit as a student, gathering knowledge on the popular (and unpopular) principles behind addiction. I believed that my situation – the flying, the subsequent use of drugs, and the resultant struggle with addiction – was the reason anxiety had become my flat mate.
It was a personally motivated pastime, but one that felt, by nature, strangely satisfying. I believed there was a crux in the center of the addiction debate – somewhere between the right-wing idea that you must be weak to suffer, and the liberal justification that chemical imbalances are solely to blame. I was sure that addiction was circumstantial, or at least situational, because without my fear of flying – the situation – I would have never been exposed to it. But without my circumstances, I’m not sure I would have beaten it.
Finding someone who shared a view that was similar to mine was as satisfying as the pills that helped me fly. His name is Johann Hari, the widely acclaimed author of ‘Chasing The Scream: The First And Last Day Of The War On Drugs’. I don’t believe accolades translate into a proof of reputability, so I won’t list the infinite praise his book has received, though it’s most certainly out there.
The scope of the book is far greater than the causes behind our human tendency to abuse things that feel good. But naturally, as so many of us do, I took from it what I wanted to hear most. And that was a relatively simple concept: an addict isn’t made simply by the chemical, nor the person’s mind, but rather the circumstances and situations in which the two combine.
I surrender that this conclusion is my personal interpretation of the wealth of information I was privy to (which was already Hari’s interpretation of yet another deep well of knowledge), though the parameters for this conclusion are simple and proven. Going back as far as this debate has raged on, a rat was put in a cage with an abundant supply of narcotics. The rat would use the drugs until it died, so the conclusion was simple: drugs were addictive and they would, given enough time, kill you.
Though in the 80’s, Bruce Alexander, a professor of Psychology in Vancouver, pointed out that the rat was in the cage alone. The rat was given nothing to do outside of ingesting the available drugs. This opened up dialogue about the circumstance the rat had been placed in. Alexander went on to build a rat park with all the trimmings, including two separate water bottles, only one of which was spiked. While every rat tried the drugged water, many didn’t go back. This was the first step in feigning the traditional black and white view that drugs create, and eventually kill, addicts.
Hari used this research to draw parallels between the rat’s behavior and humans. He cited the Vietnam War as a comparable example of addictive substances being temporarily administered. During a period where Time Magazine claimed heroin use was as common as chewing gum within army ranks, many discharged soldiers were leaving with a strong taste in their mouth. Though according to a study in the Archives of General Psychiatry, upon returning home, 95% of soldiers simply stopped, with very few requiring formal rehab.
The same principle can be applied to my life during the flying phase. My circumstances – the fear of flying and the cage it put me in – prompted me to use Xanax. The addictive nature of the drug turned me from a casual user into a dependent one. Though spanning past my problematic experiences with planes was a relatively positive outlook. My home life, friends, family and employment meant breaking the cycle was easier, at least as far as addiction is concerned.
On the contrary, were I to be alone – trapped in a cage that lacked the principle comforts required to make me smile – I can’t say the outcome would have been the same. In fact, I’m almost entirely sure it would have been different. Not dissimilar to a homeless addict whose next fix is the only light in his or her life.
Continuing his ability to impress me, Hari drew a very clear and final inference from it all: The opposite of addiction is not sobriety. It is human connection.
Now, I do not, with any true conviction, believe that the contributing factors toward addiction can be summed up with such simplicity, though I am certain that the notion of addicts being weak is running against the factual grain. This idea is wrong, similar to the idea that addiction’s onus rests purely on chemical imbalances within the brain. These conclusions are dated, yet they’re still recycled readily by governments and formal institutions.
My interest in the topic fails to extend far beyond the use and abuse of substances. Though it is made abundantly clear –by the likes of Johann Hari, Bruce Alexander and others who share such interests – that these facts play an integral role in discrediting the justifications used to fuel the war on drugs. More importantly, however, they challenge the paradigms of our thought processes, and consequently beg for the mercy of those who are suffering.
How will this information benefit the greater public and influence change? I’m unsure, but taking the time to read and understand Chasing The Scream is a very good start.
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Written by James Trellor.
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