When doctors do not adhere to their basic oath…First, do no harm.
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Xanax, Klonopin, Valium, Ativan – all belong to a class of drugs known as benzodiazepines (benzos). News and entertainment media portray them in terms of addiction and abuse or as innocuous medications that relax nerves. AS PRESCRIBED documents a strikingly different narrative, following eye-opening stories of invisible illness and disability. Boston-based survivor Geraldine Burns leads a grassroots army of “good patients” that help other victims and advocate tirelessly for benzodiazepine harm awareness. But resistance is strong. Geraldine and her cohorts are opposed by powerful forces that include pharmaceutical giants and a medical culture that has denied the problem for decades.

Gobbo Films founder and director Holly Hardman and director of photography Scott Shelley during filming of "As Prescribed." PHOTO PROVIDED BY GOBBO FILMS

In 'As Prescribed,' filmmaker Holly Hardman documents the struggles with prescription drugs that do more harm than good
​By Jennifer Huberdeau, The Berkshire Eagle    Jan 13, 2023

​GREAT BARRINGTON — "I was repeatedly told that because I took it as prescribed that I couldn't be dependent and that Ativan was harmless."
Geraldine Burns, of Boston, was prescribed Ativan — one of several pills classified as benzodiazepines or "benzos" (including Xanax, Valium and Klonopin) often prescribed to treat anxiety and insomnia — after the birth of her second child in 1988. She had complained of a "heavy feeling" and was given Ativan in the hospital. She was referred to a psychiatrist who prescribed Ativan to be taken regularly. She began to experience anxiety, agoraphobia and panic attacks — all which she had never had before. Cont'd

STARTING JULY 1st in AUSTRALIA! 
MELBOURNE DOCUMENTARY FILM FESTIVAL
As Prescribed will be available virtually in Australia starting on July 1 and will run through the month.

The Movement of Fear
Rock climbing and the healing journey from benzodiazepine damage
 By Matt Samet

I fell 30 feet, dropping into the void on the edge of a vast, gloomy upside-down bowl known as the Madness Cave in the verdant mountains east of Lexington, Kentucky. I knew that my belayer and the system—rope, harness, carabiners, protection bolts drilled into the rock—would arrest my fall, as they have countless times before. Still, there was that momentary twinge of fear as I set up to lunge for a tiny handhold I knew I’d likely miss. Seventy feet up the wall, my forearms were “pumped”—flush with lactic acid—from the strenuous, overhanging climbing, and my fingers had begun to open. The move was a Hail Mary, a last-ditch effort to reach a better hold and perhaps recover, to dangle my arms and shake the lactic acid out to bring fresh, oxygenated blood back in.   Cont'd
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