My Sleeping Pill Problem

all the comfort and guilt loaded into a little pink tablet

I’ve come to realize that I rely on a little pink pill to help me fall asleep each night, and that reliance frightens me. However, Benadryl is harmless — an over-the-counter allergy remedy with little to no side effects besides drowsiness. In that sense, it’s beautifully dependable. The moment I swallow it, I feel comforted by the knowledge that sleep will soon follow.

But as dependable as it is, that comfort comes with a layer of guilt. I ask myself: Is this pill a safe option for someone who’s struggled with addiction? Sure, it’s not as dependency-forming as Ambien or Xanax, but where is the line between habit and dependency? And will I always need to take something to doze off? Does that make me weak?

I wonder: What am I afraid of in that small space between wakefulness and sleep?

I used to use substances to numb the pain of living, and now I rely on Benadryl to quiet my mind before rest. It’s a different form of the same cycle — an attempt to cut through the static.

The fear of needing to do or take something to quiet the restless mind isn’t unique to me; we all have ways of coping, even if they’re not as obvious (or dangerous). Some of us turn to food, exercise, or work, while others numb with television, social media, or unhealthy relationships. It’s all an effort to silence the noise of our inner worlds.

Now I’m clean, but I still have to sit with myself. I scroll every night until I can’t keep my eyes open, drawn to the mess of the world around me — the fear, the hatred, the sense of a crumbling society — because that chaos somehow feels more familiar than the discomfort of sitting alone with my thoughts.

"I was trying to get as far away from myself as possible."

— Ottessa Moshfegh, My Year of Rest and Relaxation

In this ongoing journey of recovery, I often wonder where the line is between genuinely caring for myself and falling into old patterns of self-destruction.

During my active addiction, I’d take a sleep aid after using stimulants, lying in bed uncomfortably, tossing and turning, my heart thudding more urgently, and I wondered if I would wake the following morning. I’d tell myself I was perfectly okay, although unconvinced. I knew mixing Benadryl with cocaine was dangerous, but I had done it before, and nothing bad had happened. The risk of harm or even death was insignificant compared to the need to calm my discomfort.

Using a sleep aid would help calm my overactive heart, ease my tense muscles, loosen my grip on the pillow as I toss and turn, and allow me to keep my eyes shut against the fear of the encroaching darkness.

Relax, I’d tell myself. It’s not like I’m drifting off forever. Even if that was going to happen, would it be so bad? Yes, I’d tell Myself — I had no interest in dying. Then why do you keep doing this to yourself? What are you dancing around whenever you succumb to your weakness and pick up? What do you think this life will lead to? The goal was never to die but to find a shortcut through the pain and grief of living.

Drugs and alcohol helped numb my grief and get me through each day. I relied on substances to wake up, complete tasks, socialize, calm down, and lastly, to sleep — Benadryl being my final aid. At the time, I believed my suffering to be uniquely unbearable, but now I see it as a shared aspect of the human condition.

I’ve tried to quit Benadryl before, thinking it was a weakness. But now I accept that it serves a purpose — for now. When the time comes, I’ll stop, not out of guilt, but because I won’t need it anymore. What matters isn’t just quitting but knowing I can sit with myself, no matter how uncomfortable it gets.