appointments to imagine her at home; for some reason, I usually pictured her standing on tiptoe, filling a bird feeder. Dr. Barbara worked methodically, even more so than other prescribers I’d known. At every appointment she took me through the same few sets of questions, noting my responses in a binder. In one of her assessments she would read out statements to which I was to reply: “All of the time,” “Most of the time,” “Some of the time,” or “Never or almost never.” I still remember that one of these statements was: “I feel punished.” I remember it because it was such a perfect evocation of exactly the way I did feel. She asked me practical questions too, about caffeine, alcohol, and sleep. Our appointments were brief, but she had a certain personal warmth, and I liked her and felt that she wished me well.
Dr. Barbara told me that Serzone had been pulled off the market after having been shown to cause liver damage in a few rare cases. She did think that I was depressed, though, and she recommended that I try Prozac. Prozac! Even in my low state, I was a bit excited about getting to try the oldest and most charismatic member of the SSRI family. I had told Dr. Barbara that I was having trouble feeling like getting out of bed in the morning, a symptom she seemed well familiar with and aptly called “dread of the day”; she told me that she wanted me to try Prozac in part because it has a reputation for being activating. I filled her prescription at Wegman’s supermarket, took it home, and tried to think hopeful thoughts.
“ACTIVATING.” BOY, WAS it ever. After a few days I felt positively wired. I couldn’t sleep. I had to force myself to eat. (Dr. Barbara dutifully wrote “anorexia” in her notes, in her clear hand.) She took me down to a smaller dose and then brought me up again slowly, hoping I’d acclimate.
But I never did. During the Prozac period, I drove to Massachusetts for a party to celebrate my Uncle David’s sixtieth birthday. My parents and David’s children and a couple of my other aunts and uncles were meeting up at David’s small farmhouse in the Berkshires. I liked it out there and was happy to go; I thought that a couple days away from Ithaca might be good for me. What I remember, though, is this: I’m in an upstairs bedroom at David’s, where I’ve been assigned to spend the night. There is a tall four-poster bed fitted with scratchy wool blankets. It’s nighttime, and I think that I might be losing my mind. I feel as if I want to molt my skin, or climb up the walls like a praying mantis and peel the wallpaper into strips with my teeth. I have never been so anxious or so uncomfortable in my entire life; I’m sweating and shaking like a Hollywood representation of someone coming off of hard drugs. I want to wake somebody else up and tell them how insanely wrong I feel, and I’m held back only by the knowledge that they won’t be able to help me, and the fear that the words that would come out of my mouth might not make any sense at all.
Back in Ithaca, I called Dr. Barbara as soon as I could. She told me that it was the Prozac that had made me feel that way; that in fact it was Prozac that had had me feeling anxious and creepy-crawly for the past few weeks. The formal name for the state is akathisia, she said, and it can occur in some people who take SSRIs. This explained some of my diary entries. Looking back over recent ones, I read: “Prozac seems to make me jumpy, confused, more anxious rather than less”; a few days later I’d noted, “I feel like I am losing my shit.” At David’s house I’d written that on the drive out I felt “so fucked-up . . . so discombobulated it’s almost frightening.” Things were “too intense, cycling fast between okay and unbearable.” On October 19, 2003: “I feel worlds better since the end of the Prozac adventure,” and am happy to be out of “Prozac hell.”
The next year, a series of emotionally-charged
Dr. Barbara told me that Serzone had been pulled off the market after having been shown to cause liver damage in a few rare cases. She did think that I was depressed, though, and she recommended that I try Prozac. Prozac! Even in my low state, I was a bit excited about getting to try the oldest and most charismatic member of the SSRI family. I had told Dr. Barbara that I was having trouble feeling like getting out of bed in the morning, a symptom she seemed well familiar with and aptly called “dread of the day”; she told me that she wanted me to try Prozac in part because it has a reputation for being activating. I filled her prescription at Wegman’s supermarket, took it home, and tried to think hopeful thoughts.
“ACTIVATING.” BOY, WAS it ever. After a few days I felt positively wired. I couldn’t sleep. I had to force myself to eat. (Dr. Barbara dutifully wrote “anorexia” in her notes, in her clear hand.) She took me down to a smaller dose and then brought me up again slowly, hoping I’d acclimate.
But I never did. During the Prozac period, I drove to Massachusetts for a party to celebrate my Uncle David’s sixtieth birthday. My parents and David’s children and a couple of my other aunts and uncles were meeting up at David’s small farmhouse in the Berkshires. I liked it out there and was happy to go; I thought that a couple days away from Ithaca might be good for me. What I remember, though, is this: I’m in an upstairs bedroom at David’s, where I’ve been assigned to spend the night. There is a tall four-poster bed fitted with scratchy wool blankets. It’s nighttime, and I think that I might be losing my mind. I feel as if I want to molt my skin, or climb up the walls like a praying mantis and peel the wallpaper into strips with my teeth. I have never been so anxious or so uncomfortable in my entire life; I’m sweating and shaking like a Hollywood representation of someone coming off of hard drugs. I want to wake somebody else up and tell them how insanely wrong I feel, and I’m held back only by the knowledge that they won’t be able to help me, and the fear that the words that would come out of my mouth might not make any sense at all.
Back in Ithaca, I called Dr. Barbara as soon as I could. She told me that it was the Prozac that had made me feel that way; that in fact it was Prozac that had had me feeling anxious and creepy-crawly for the past few weeks. The formal name for the state is akathisia, she said, and it can occur in some people who take SSRIs. This explained some of my diary entries. Looking back over recent ones, I read: “Prozac seems to make me jumpy, confused, more anxious rather than less”; a few days later I’d noted, “I feel like I am losing my shit.” At David’s house I’d written that on the drive out I felt “so fucked-up . . . so discombobulated it’s almost frightening.” Things were “too intense, cycling fast between okay and unbearable.” On October 19, 2003: “I feel worlds better since the end of the Prozac adventure,” and am happy to be out of “Prozac hell.”
The next year, a series of emotionally-charged
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