Some guy—Robert Whitaker, I think, and how did we live
without Google?—wrote a book about the drug industry and the explosion of
mental diseases. His thesis went something like this—for most diseases, the
incidence rate drops as new drugs are developed, patients are treated, and
presumably cured. But ever since Prozac, we’ve had a spate of new
antidepressants, and the rate of depression has…
…skyrocketed.
So what’s going on?
I know all about this because Eric is writing a blog
for Psychology Today. He sent me a link for the book, as well as a quote from a
psychiatrist at the University of Michigan, who says that exercise is at least
as good as antidepressants in the treatment of major depression.
Oh yeah?
I did my three-mile walk today at 8 AM—I’m rigorous
about doing it. I listened to the first two string quartets of Brahms—my walk
time is also music time. I came home, tried to get down to work, and couldn’t.
I hadn’t taken my Lexapro.
Little things began to annoy me. The damn Internet
connection is down again. I tried to write a post. My mood is apparent in the
first line—“It’s 2500 bucks of sheer fucking frustration.” (I was writing about
my Zen MacBook Pro….) I wasted time rereading some old posts. I began to wonder
whether it was worth it all.
Cousin Brian popped into my mind. His words: I said to myself over and over as I read, "he's so
brave." You hold nothing back: Franny's character, her love, her pepper,
John's stoicism, the terrible tensions between you and Eric, your own utter
devotion to Fran, your struggles with depression before, during, and
after...it's remarkable.
Yeah? Well, this morning I wasn’t feeling so brave. I
was feeling pissed. And sorry for myself. Why has my life been such a fucking
struggle? Why have I had to fight all my goddam life? The titanic struggle with
the cello, the battle with depression, coming out, moving to a land where I’ll
always be a stranger / visitor. What the fuck have I NOT had to do?
Shit!
Right. So then I got mad at Eric. Fuck you, you mental
health experts, I raged! Have you ever been so far gone that you felt your
thoughts turn to voices? Have you ever been, as I once was, in a bus sitting in
front of a deranged street person. The guy was furiously snarling obscenities
at me—“you mother-fucking asshole. You fucking think you’re so great… Pussy! Cock-sucker!”
And I didn’t move away.
Why?
Because I wasn’t entirely sure that it was the guy
behind me.
It might have been me, pouring out that venom.
So it’s easy for you guys, the experts, to talk
clinically and analytically about antidepressants and the rates of major
depression. Sit in a dark room at 3 AM and struggle, as I once did, through a
ravishingly beautiful amen of Monteverdi.
And have that be the one thin thread that ties you
still to life.
At some point in the morning, it became clear.
ONE day without my Lexapro is enough to start me off on
the slide to despair, darkness, death.
Well, I am rigorous, too, about going to the shrink.
And I had gone last week, and gotten the prescription.
So I went to CVS.
I took the Lexapro one hour ago.
I can now write. I am no longer angry at Eric. I know
what I will do today. I have a to-do list, and will work my way through most of
it. What I don’t do today, I will do tomorrow.
Yes, tomorrow I will walk and listen to music and
contemplate the sea. That will make me feel better.
I will also reach for the one thing that apparently
means life or death.
Lexapro, 20 mg. PO QD.
