David's Inferno Read Online Free PDF Page B

Wendy. She wasn’t working that day. I wasn’t functional that day. Both of us were stuck in the house with someone who wasn’t a whole lot of fun to be around. Someone who took up a huge amount of psychological space.
    She suggested we drive to Northampton. Just to get out of the house. Go somewhere. Change of scene.
    I sat in the passenger seat the whole way, hands folded, head down, monosyllabic responses—like grandpa being taken out of the home for a Sunday afternoon drive, physically incapable of dragging my awareness from the lump in my throat, darkness behind my eyes, and a tenacious agitation that could attach itself nettle-like to the most trivial sensation or thought.
    I followed her into various stores. Did my best impersonation of someone who was interested in something … anything. Survived the terrifying decision of whether to have a cappuccino or a latte. And, in general, tried not to make Wendy’s life any more distressing than I’d already made it.
    Most masters of meditation would undoubtedly disagree, but being aware every moment isn’t always all it’s cracked up to be. One of the “blessed curses” of being in a state like this is that wherever you go, there it is. No special technique required.

    A week later, I called my psychiatrist back and told him that, even though I’d stopped taking the Chinese herbs and remained at a very low dose of Celexa, I was still extremely anxious, had frequentcrying jags and, most important was running out of Valium. He said to stop taking the Celexa and come see him the next day. I arrived in his office, agitated, emotional, tearful. With that wired feeling in the pit of my stomach. Five pounds lighter than I’d been the week before.
    There’s a particular sensation when you’re about to get something you crave. The mouth-watering anticipation of being mere inches from that first bite of your favorite dessert. The equally moisturizing sensation of being on the verge of some serious—or not-so-serious—sex. The gentle relief in the back of your throat when you pour yourself a beer after work and begin to lift it to your lips. The more intense urgency of being on the verge of taking that first drag of a cigarette or line of cocaine. (Those days may be well behind me, but just saying the words evokes the sensation.)
    When you’re that bent out of shape, watching your psychiatrist write a prescription is just as intense. You believe with all your heart that you’re one trip to the pharmacy and a dose or two away from relief. Realizing he
isn’t
going to write that prescription is heart-breaking. But my doctor, undoubtedly wisely, said I’d better stay off the Celexa until “I felt myself again.” Valium was a consolation prize. It meant we couldn’t even get to square one until we had a chance to sort out the pieces.
    To my surprise, things got better immediately. In email after email I announced my return to the free world:
    October 26: “I stopped taking the Celexa yesterday and actually got a real night’s sleep.”
    October 27: “I am starting to feel ‘normal’ and am even considering joining you guys this weekend for that bike ride.”
    October 29: “While I hesitate to ever describe myself as ‘normal,’ I’m pleased to report that I am once again functional and, occasionally, even have a sense of humor.”
    October 30: “I’ve gone from the most excruciating mental state I’ve ever experienced to one of the calmest, most productive, optimistic. Jeez, the mind …”
    On Halloween evening, I sat in the same chair as I had the week before, in front of the same fireplace, drinking what might as well have been the same glass of wine, and waiting with childlike (i.e., immature) anticipation for the first trick-or-treaters. We never get trick-or-treaters. We live too far out in the country. But it’s an