a different kind of free
I realized a couple of days ago that I've been off psych meds for more than a year.
Yes, indeed, it was last March when I ramped down from 12.5mg of Paxil a day, to that dose every other day, then every third day, then quit. I did it over the course of about two weeks, which is much faster than you're supposed to do it - but seeing as I was on such a low dose of a coated, time-release tablet, there was no way for me to take any less.
The Slate article about Paxil was both informative and great for a knowing laugh. Yes, I did use to be more outgoing and party-whorish before, didn't I? And yes, the combination of Paxil and liquor is indeed wonderful, and like the author of this article, my alcohol tolerance is substantially lower OFF the drug (which is the opposite of what I assumed it would be). If I got anything positive from Paxil, it's the ability to get drunk and friendly, but only towards people I know - I have almost completely lost the ability to be super-friendly with strangers, even in bars, where it's easy to get people to talk. Also of note in the article is the writer's parallel ability to be creative and write prose and have the magical ability to almost holographically "see" whole sentences in the mind, which is an ability that I have now lost. Meds, I think, might have re-wired the part of my brain that used to be able to do that, because I sure as hell can't do it anymore (which is why writing A DROP OF SCARLET has been a bewildering, terrifying nightmare - where are the words? I can't see them. I just have to hack away and pray that there is an overarching structure there, because I can't see it anymore, and that used to be my entire existence).
Only time will tell if my writing skills and ability got permanently exchanged for being on meds for 8 years. Unfortunately I'll never know if I would have actually committed suicide if I hadn't gone on them, but I sure as hell was close, many, many times. I'll never know how things might have been different if I had just, I dunno, started pumping iron. I didn't kill myself, but I no longer have the talent I used to have; so thanks a fuckload, everybody, who talked me out of it. :(
(But maybe I've developed new abilities - the ability to just keep working, even though I'm no longer buffeted by constant inspiration. All the folks who've given me props about my Foxworth piece in the Willy Week don't seem to notice my sudden lack of creative juice.)
Still, I feel great, more or less. I am simply not depressed anymore. Period. I'm just not. I'm not socially anxious anymore, either. I'm still not particularly forgiving, of myself or others, but that's behavioral, not chemical. I'm working on it. Still... I wish I didn't feel like crying all the time, which I do, but it's not out of sadness - I am constantly overwhelmed by wonder and joy and love, with nowhere to put any of it, because there is no appropriate outlet. Oh well; plus ça change, plus le même chose.
Happy April 20th. It's a sinfully gorgeous day in Portland. Go look at some apple blossoms.
Yes, indeed, it was last March when I ramped down from 12.5mg of Paxil a day, to that dose every other day, then every third day, then quit. I did it over the course of about two weeks, which is much faster than you're supposed to do it - but seeing as I was on such a low dose of a coated, time-release tablet, there was no way for me to take any less.
The Slate article about Paxil was both informative and great for a knowing laugh. Yes, I did use to be more outgoing and party-whorish before, didn't I? And yes, the combination of Paxil and liquor is indeed wonderful, and like the author of this article, my alcohol tolerance is substantially lower OFF the drug (which is the opposite of what I assumed it would be). If I got anything positive from Paxil, it's the ability to get drunk and friendly, but only towards people I know - I have almost completely lost the ability to be super-friendly with strangers, even in bars, where it's easy to get people to talk. Also of note in the article is the writer's parallel ability to be creative and write prose and have the magical ability to almost holographically "see" whole sentences in the mind, which is an ability that I have now lost. Meds, I think, might have re-wired the part of my brain that used to be able to do that, because I sure as hell can't do it anymore (which is why writing A DROP OF SCARLET has been a bewildering, terrifying nightmare - where are the words? I can't see them. I just have to hack away and pray that there is an overarching structure there, because I can't see it anymore, and that used to be my entire existence).
Only time will tell if my writing skills and ability got permanently exchanged for being on meds for 8 years. Unfortunately I'll never know if I would have actually committed suicide if I hadn't gone on them, but I sure as hell was close, many, many times. I'll never know how things might have been different if I had just, I dunno, started pumping iron. I didn't kill myself, but I no longer have the talent I used to have; so thanks a fuckload, everybody, who talked me out of it. :(
(But maybe I've developed new abilities - the ability to just keep working, even though I'm no longer buffeted by constant inspiration. All the folks who've given me props about my Foxworth piece in the Willy Week don't seem to notice my sudden lack of creative juice.)
Still, I feel great, more or less. I am simply not depressed anymore. Period. I'm just not. I'm not socially anxious anymore, either. I'm still not particularly forgiving, of myself or others, but that's behavioral, not chemical. I'm working on it. Still... I wish I didn't feel like crying all the time, which I do, but it's not out of sadness - I am constantly overwhelmed by wonder and joy and love, with nowhere to put any of it, because there is no appropriate outlet. Oh well; plus ça change, plus le même chose.
Happy April 20th. It's a sinfully gorgeous day in Portland. Go look at some apple blossoms.