Pills, Depression, and a Sleepless Night
I have been reading Dostoevsky's Notes from Underground lately (a highly enjoyable book about a bitter and angry man). I have observed that he, the author, must have been incredibly depressed (as, I imagine, most Russian writers of his era were) to write such a fascinating discussion of human nature. And, as I do with most great writers, compared him to myself to find similarities or differences (obviously in hope of discovering genius in the cracks).
Some time back, I had a panic attack. Freaked out, hyperventilated, rushed to the hospital, the whole nine yards. It was not pretty. I remember the feelings that surfaced during that, it was embarrassing. I was not where I am today, in my thought process, and I remember begging God to let me live. When I think about that, I am ashamed of myself. First of all, if I die, I want to die on my feet, so to speak. I don't want to whimper into eternity (if that is what is awaiting us), I want to calmly open the door and walk in. Secondly, if there is a God (I choose to believe that there is), why would he give a shit about what one human being was begging of him? I find it so amusing that someone thinks that their promises or covenants with God will change his mind on some point. If God created us, he knows how fickle we are. He knows that we will say anything to live another second. Why would he believe Dan Vaughn in that car seat on the way to the hospital?
All that was just to say that, after the attack I was diagnosed with depression. I'm not sure if that is the technical term for it, but certainly that was how I understood it. To ease my "pain", my doctor prescribed zoloft, an effective medicine (turns out my dad had used the same medicine earlier in the year) for the treatment of depression. Over time, I became numb. Not over-medicated numb, I wasn't walking into walls and shit. It was that my mind became quiet.
Recently, I was discussing with a close friend how ideas compete in my mind. Like a thousand conversations going on at one time, not audible voices, but ideas clashing in my mind. Over and over again, not one winning over the other. Like a fight between an old married couple, neither will win, but the screaming and cursing continues. Does this make me crazy or is it the most rational level of thought that there is? Realizing that all arguments, as shocking as it may seem, have some truth in them, and that it is the situation that makes them correct or incorrect. How horrible to live in a world of grays instead of black and whites! Life is easy for those that see only right and wrong.
But it was that fighting that was gone from my mind on zoloft, and I found that I was numb to the world around me and the world inside me. I could not communicate with my fingers any longer: my writing suffered. And it is at that point that Dostoevsky and I crash into each other on intersecting lines. What if Fydor was that way now, in this modern age? He would be instantly diagnosed and pumped full of meds to keep the bad thoughts out. I feel that, in many ways, pills and meds are killing expression and self-reliance in this country. We are a nation of over-medicated robots, bumping into each other as we shuffle around the hospital.
I am not saying that there are not some mental and physical ailments that do not require medication. I am a diabetic and require two pills daily to treat my blood sugar levels, and I would never argue that I should be without those meds. I am merely arguing that maybe we should tolerate those things which are tolerable for the sake of feeling our lives. Is happiness the only goal in life? Do I have to have a sloppy, pill-induced smile to prove that I am alive? I think that life is just as much pain and depression as it is happiness (I would argue that life is much much more pain and depression than happiness). When we medicate away the negatives of life, do we not rob ourselves of the experience?
Some time back, I had a panic attack. Freaked out, hyperventilated, rushed to the hospital, the whole nine yards. It was not pretty. I remember the feelings that surfaced during that, it was embarrassing. I was not where I am today, in my thought process, and I remember begging God to let me live. When I think about that, I am ashamed of myself. First of all, if I die, I want to die on my feet, so to speak. I don't want to whimper into eternity (if that is what is awaiting us), I want to calmly open the door and walk in. Secondly, if there is a God (I choose to believe that there is), why would he give a shit about what one human being was begging of him? I find it so amusing that someone thinks that their promises or covenants with God will change his mind on some point. If God created us, he knows how fickle we are. He knows that we will say anything to live another second. Why would he believe Dan Vaughn in that car seat on the way to the hospital?
All that was just to say that, after the attack I was diagnosed with depression. I'm not sure if that is the technical term for it, but certainly that was how I understood it. To ease my "pain", my doctor prescribed zoloft, an effective medicine (turns out my dad had used the same medicine earlier in the year) for the treatment of depression. Over time, I became numb. Not over-medicated numb, I wasn't walking into walls and shit. It was that my mind became quiet.
Recently, I was discussing with a close friend how ideas compete in my mind. Like a thousand conversations going on at one time, not audible voices, but ideas clashing in my mind. Over and over again, not one winning over the other. Like a fight between an old married couple, neither will win, but the screaming and cursing continues. Does this make me crazy or is it the most rational level of thought that there is? Realizing that all arguments, as shocking as it may seem, have some truth in them, and that it is the situation that makes them correct or incorrect. How horrible to live in a world of grays instead of black and whites! Life is easy for those that see only right and wrong.
But it was that fighting that was gone from my mind on zoloft, and I found that I was numb to the world around me and the world inside me. I could not communicate with my fingers any longer: my writing suffered. And it is at that point that Dostoevsky and I crash into each other on intersecting lines. What if Fydor was that way now, in this modern age? He would be instantly diagnosed and pumped full of meds to keep the bad thoughts out. I feel that, in many ways, pills and meds are killing expression and self-reliance in this country. We are a nation of over-medicated robots, bumping into each other as we shuffle around the hospital.
I am not saying that there are not some mental and physical ailments that do not require medication. I am a diabetic and require two pills daily to treat my blood sugar levels, and I would never argue that I should be without those meds. I am merely arguing that maybe we should tolerate those things which are tolerable for the sake of feeling our lives. Is happiness the only goal in life? Do I have to have a sloppy, pill-induced smile to prove that I am alive? I think that life is just as much pain and depression as it is happiness (I would argue that life is much much more pain and depression than happiness). When we medicate away the negatives of life, do we not rob ourselves of the experience?
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