Most of you are not aware that I have been on antidepressants since 1997. It’s not something I broadcast: “Hey, I was in the grasp of Satan for several months. How are you?” Not a good conversation starter. Keep it off your resume. It’s a good way to scare people off. You can make light of it in conversation, but those among you who are currently in its clutches will not be amused.
Fortunately, I’ve fallen into the abyss only twice. The second bout came ten years after the first. Zoloft had stopped working. After trying several alternatives, I finally found relief with Venlafaxine (Effexor for the syllabically impaired). I was also in my therapist’s chair off and on. When I say that guy was a life saver, I’m being literal. Telling a stranger your innermost thoughts seems careless: “I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told anyone. What’s your name again?” It can also be a crucial step toward restoring your sanity.
Both tours of the abyss were accompanied by the same symptom: a loss of appetite. I had to force myself to complete a meal. Both times I dropped about fifteen pounds. Having been a fat kid, I’ve always been weight conscious. During my first go-round, I remember coaxing myself out of bed, looking in the mirror, and whispering, “Yeah, I feel like I could take my own life, but I just look too damn good right now.”
This is all to say that I haven’t been off meds for 27 years...until two weekends ago. I arrived at the airport at 10:30pm for my red eye to Cozumel, Mexico to meet the Regal Princess cruise ship. I opened my knapsack to find a void where I usually place my pill caddy. I immediately attempted to calm my mind, reminding myself that this was Thursday and I’d be back on Sunday. Three days and four nights couldn’t possibly wipe out the medicinal effects from 27 years.
The first night was spent in the airplane, flying to my connection in Houston. I barely closed my eyes. Nothing abnormal there. I rarely sleep on planes. The second night was spent in a hotel. Uneventful. Onboard the ship the next night, I had trouble closing my eyes. I finally started dozing during a movie, only to get up to pee six or seven times over the next several hours.
The next night I was alternately cold and hot, sweating at times. My days were fine, and my shows went off without a hitch, lots of fun. We sailed into the Port of Galveston. I figured I was in the clear as I rode to Houston International Airport, about an hour away.
The cruise line had booked me on a 6pm flight back to SFO; however, I was dropped off at 9:30am. I patiently puttered around the airport for six hours before finally catching a slightly earlier flight, boarding at 4:30pm. I nabbed the last available seat, so I was stuck between two 30ish guys who were glued to their phones. I felt trapped. This was rare and alarming. Normally at this point, I would have take a half a Clonazepam (Klonopin), but I was out. I only allow myself four pills a month because that stuff can be addictive.
The pilot announced that one of the two SFO landing strips was being repaved. Since they could only use one, we were going to be delayed 35 minutes. I became fidgety, unable to relax. I was boxed in. I needed to get up. I lingered around the back of the plane. I walked the length of the cabin and back. I sat on the toilet even though I didn’t have to go. I was stalling in the stall.
While back in my seat, I searched for a strategy to get through the next four hours. Alcohol came to mind. It would be at least an hour before they started beverage service. What to do till then? I had downloaded a few things on Netflix. I started each of them. None grabbed me. I couldn’t ignore my anxiety. I knew it was because of my lack of meds. Unable to do anything about it, I had convinced myself nothing would help. Nice going, Dan. Insist you’re hopeless. Wave the white flag.
The beverage service started but I decided against booze, afraid it might make things worse. I frantically searched for calm. Deep breaths. Nope, that didn’t work. Looking at photos of home, Cara, and Roy. Okay that’s done. What now? Playing hearts, that usually distracts. I play online, but without Wi-Fi I can only play against the game. That wasn't helping. I was desperately in search of an activity to anesthetize my mind.
One thing that did help was visualizing myself getting off the plane and walking through the airport. I’ll get my bag and Cara will pick me up. We will kiss and I will know that I’m just minutes away from taking my antidepressants and I will be back to normal. That assurance distracted me for a few minutes. Then, I was right back to crawling out of my skin.
I decided to purchase in-flight Wi-Fi. I figured a fantasy baseball live mock draft would do the trick. The United Airlines pay portal wasn’t working! The depression gods had conspired against me. I got up and loitered in back of the plane. I let several people pass, assuring them I wasn’t waiting for the bathroom.
I reluctantly, dreadfully returned to my seat. Thirty minutes later I wanted to get up again, but we hit some choppy air and were all confined to our seats. I feverishly combed my iPad for a mind-numbing activity. I landed on video poker. I was about 5 minutes into it when, what do you know? It was working! The repetition of playing hand after hand after hand was all-consuming.
I played for at least an hour, until we finally landed. Once in the terminal, I was a released hostage. I glided to baggage claim, then out to the curb. It was a brisk night, but I enjoyed the crisp air piercing my face and hands. Cara arrived with a bottle of water and my pill caddy. I swallowed the day’s regimen, hugging a life preserver and floating to safety. A few hours later I was fine.
I’ve been asked, “Does it bother you that you’ll be on meds the rest of your life?” Nope. It does not. In the past, I have entertained going cold turkey. There will be no such entertainment in the foreseeable future and the only cold turkey I’ll be having will be on the Friday after Thanksgiving. There will also be an emergency week’s worth of Effexor in my knapsack.
Thanks for the scoots.
dsp
Good Man, Dan.