Green Card for Prozac Nation

A few months ago, I was diagnosed with SAD. Seasonal Affective Disorder. Not the "winter blues" that is a major complaint during the winter months, but the true physiological disorder. It has to do with serotonin and the brain. The brain makes it, the body uses it. My brain, however, is the possessive type. As soon as the serotonin was produced and released, my brain was grabbing it back. It could simply not bear for its precious serotonin to leave the nest, especially to that base, animalistic body. So, serotonin was not having its normal effect on my form - keeping my form normal. Serotonin balances, moderates, keeps things on even keel. What was happening was that I started swinging. Not in the Laugh-In use of the term, but rather in mood and emotion. I would be happy and content in bright sunny weather and an anxious, irritable, depressive mess during dark periods. Serotonin production is related to light level and short photoperiods normally see diminished serotonin levels. Hence the more noticable effects in winter. But, overcast days can do the same for people with serious cases and I am an example of this unfortunate type.

I can tell upon waking in the pitch black, wee hours of the morning, what will be the weather for the day. My body can gauge pressure in the atmosphere with great precision. So, from the beginning of my day, I would know if I was going to have a "good" day or a "bad" day. Was the the forecast sunny and clear or dark and rainy. So, from its beginning, the road of my day was laid out. And, my predictions were never wrong. Bad days were dreaded and made me want to stay in bed with the blankets pulled snugly over my head. I knew that any small perturbation in the day would push me over the emotional edge. I would be snippy and irritated with everyone and I would be overwrought if extra chores or responsibilities manifested during the day. I would not be truly in control of myself. It was time to seek medical assistance.

Actually, I first visited my doctor for other health complaints and brought up these symptoms during the discussion. She quickly summed the ideas in my description into a picture of SAD and promptly prescribed Prozac. This did not make me happy. Prozac was for people with clinical depression. Prozac was for crazy people. Prozac made "normal" people crazy. Prozac made you hear voices, become suicidal or murderous. Prozac was not your friend. Not being one to keep my opinions to myself, I voice my concerns to my doctor and she whacked me on the head for evaluating without evidence. Did I have any facts or information to really back up my claims. Ummm...no. She knows that I am a scientist and attacked me with the one argument that I could not discount - I was reaching a conclusion based on anecdotal evidence. Drat. Foiled again.

So, I took my cursed prescription to the pharmacy and found myself becoming self-conscious as I stood in the Drop-Off line. I noticed that I was holding my slip so that no one could see the medication. I made sure not to use the drug name when I spoke with the pharmacist. I realized that I didn't want anyone to know I was on Prozac. I was "ashamed." I was truly worried about how people would view me if it became known that I was on Prozac. This is atypical of me. I generally don't give a fig about what people think about me, or thought I didn't. I went home, clutching my pills and perplexity.

Why was I feeling this way? I look like a train wreck. I am not a fashion follower. I am outspoken, annoyingly liberal and unflinchingly honest. I follow the lead of my own heart and head. I am compassionate and respectful to others, but will always give greater weight to my own beliefs and act accordingly. Why in the heck did I care if the world knew I was on Prozac? I dance and have always danced to my own musical score. It was bewildering. I knew people who were on Prozac or similar and did not think anything about it. I didn’t look down on them; in fact, I never gave a second thought to the idea once they told me this drug had been prescribed to them. They might just as well have told me the doctor prescribed Advil. But, on a general level, there was something about the medication…I could divorce my biases when it was being taken by friends and peers, but the Prozac aura still existed in my mind for the general public. Further, the aura was intensified when applied to me. I was baffled, confused, but still quite ashamed.

I took my hated medicine faithfully and found that its benefits were legion. I was able to face the world again. Regardless of time of year or time of day, through rain, sleet, snow or sunshine, I was balanced. My normal emotions were not blunted, but I was not swinging like a monkey in a tree. Things were as they should be. A success! It worked! The way it should. Privately, I reveled in my freedom from emotional slavery to the weather. I rejoiced in the knowledge that I could expect each day to be manageable. Not that every day would be a “happy” day, Prozac doesn’t have that magical property. Every day, though, would not have the extra burden of an emotional roller-coaster added upon the normal trials and tribulations. That was great blessing. But, my personal joy did not lead to shared information. I could not slough off the feeling that this was wonderful, but wrong. I was actually more insecure now than ever Why?

Well, the why is obvious. It means I am not perfect. Surprise! Scigirl is not saintly. The armor has a chink. Of course, this is no surprise. Of course, this is normal. Of course, this is natural. For other people. Not for me. I do not accept imperfection. I am the consummate overachiever, never satisfied with good enough. Failure is a sign of weakness in myself, of wrongness, of “shame.” I am not so universal as to project my judgement onto others, though. I fully understand that people have imperfections, make mistakes, experience failures and I am always there to lend a willing hand. I believe it is the responsibility of the individual in civilized society to give aid where and when it is needed. Freely and willingly. I just don’t apply this to myself. Failure slashes through me like a razor blade. It flays the skin from frame. It utterly macerates my self-esteem, self-image, leaves me in a blaze of anger at my own ineptitude. I rage at failure, at imperfection and I will go to extreme lengths to avoid this situation. I do whatever it takes to succeed. I drive myself to exhaustion to produce product and project that is unmatched among my peers. I race hard and fast to master topics – not learn, “master.” I never stop at beginning level – I go as far as I can with the resources I can muster (and I obtain every resource available to me regardless of the time or monetary burden). I am obsessive with my drive to leave no doubt in my mind that I have utterly, completely, totally succeeded.

The Prozac is a sign that the one thing I hold most dear, my brain, is not perfect. I accept that my body is not. It has failed me more times than a dead-beat parent. It is riddled with problems, traumas, impediments and curtailments. But, my brain…it is the one thing that has worked steadily and strongly all my life. It is the organ around which my entire life has been built. It is the only thing that has kept me alive and in motion through the hardships I have endured. If in trouble, it will find a way out. If I want to expand, grow…it will facilitate my efforts. My stalwart brain has let me down. There is no greater failure to me than that.

Except for one. The need for help. I don’t ask for help. Again, it is a sign of personal weakness on my part. For others, I will go to the ends of the earth to be of assistance. To make their times and lives easier and more comfortable. For myself – I do it alone. And, I always have. I have, since childhood, had to make my own way in life. I was an only child to a couple who, by all accounts, should likely never have had children. My mother was a woman impatient with young children – I would often get punished or whipped for no reason other than her own frustration with life and its events. Her temperament was more suited to older youths and our relationship improved greatly by the time I was in high school. My father was 51 years old when I was born and died of Alzheimer’s Disease when I was 19. He was in decline most of my formative years and, obviously, did not play much of a fatherly role in my upbringing. I learned to rely on one person for my living – myself. Then, it was the need to help my mother take care of my father. While she was caring for him, she was diagnosed with terminal breast cancer. She lived another 3 years and I took care of her during this time. Then, I was with a self-absorbed husband who neither cared nor paid any attention to me. Everything I did, I did with and for myself. Upon divorce, I was left destitute and had to scratch and claw for base survival. Never once did I receive help. From anyone. At any time. It has become the norm for me. It is who I “am.”

So the Prozac hit me in the worst possible place. It punched the most sensitive button. You are weak and need help. Could things be worse? No. Not in any way. The funny thing is I know need help on many levels, as do we all. I often wish I had a hand with daily tasks. I want the immediate shoulder to cry on when the frustrations of life become too much to bear. But, I don’t ask for it. Further, I tend to politely refuse it when it is offered. I have wonderful friends who witness my various trials and offer their hands to me willingly and gladly. And, I always respond, “I’ll definitely let you know when I need help. I promise.” Lie, lie, lie…Oh, I’ll take a lift to the airport or someone grabbing me a bottle of soda on the way over to visit, but for something of importance. I just can’t break away from my solo mode. I need help with my head and the Prozac is a major beginning. But it is a beginning that, ironically, depresses me. I really should see a counselor about this issue, but that would be seeking help and admitting weakness. Catch 22. Damn that Joseph Heller…