Since I took my last anti-depressant a month ago, I have been waiting with bated breath. When would I get depressed again like all the other times I ran out of refills? I expected to go through the same painful cycle that I have gone through so many times: finding a new psychiatrist, explaining my story to him and, most importantly, getting his signature on that powerful little prescription slip for the suggested flavor-of-the-month.
I figured it was just a matter of time before I was back on the soft leather chair, explaining why I had let my prescription run out, and promising it wouldn’t happen again. Yet weeks have gone by, and I’m wondering???is it possible that I don’t need the one-two punch of Prozac and Wellbutrin to get me going in the morning anymore?
Since my teenage years, when my doctor parents started prescribing me pills for everything from acne to irregularity, colorful caplets have always rolled around next to my morning juice glass. So when my boarding school psychiatrist recommended anti-depressants, I quickly accepted. Since not just my parents, but my grandparents, take them, and my brother was still recovering from a suicide attempt, it seemed somewhat inevitable for me to jump on the bandwagon. After all, according to the London Observer, the Brits consume so much Prozac that traces of it can be found in their country’s groundwater.
For me, the medicine made coping possible?with my pre-ordained career choice of medicine, with my classes, with my demanding family. Always striving for top grades to please my mother and future medical school admissions boards, I never had time to study what I wanted or follow my interests. The required classes of a pre-med student demanded nights and weekends with Lewis-Dot structures?unpleasant for most, but intolerable for me, since I really didn’t want to study medicine.
Today I don’t have to cope anymore. I’m doing what I want, and I found out that my choice to jump off the pre-med track doesn’t actually disappoint my mom. Since I stopped the meds, however, according to my very non-scientific assessment, my emotions seem to swing up and down more.
Last week, when listening to my iPod in Barnes & Noble, I found myself moved to tears by the trite lyrics of Death Cab for Cutie. Their raspy voices had never been more than the backdrop to homework reading for me, but that day, amidst people chatting about their afternoon run and the contents of US Weekly, they provoked a rush of empathy that felt satisfyingly human.
I’m admittedly not as anal as I used to be, either. I still keep an up-to-date to-do list in my planner, but not as many items are crossed off these days. I’d rather go out and shoot for my photo class than buy Drano like the list instructs. Why buy Drano in anticipation of a clogged drain anyways? Being more laidback has its disadvantages, too. Certain more pressing things, like my homework, don’t always get done, and I find myself scrambling to finish.
Life on antidepressants plugged along steadily. Looking at it another way, though, I was flatlining. What defines the experience of living for me is those hills and valleys, and for now, I choose to learn to live with my idiosyncracies rather than cover them up.
