Brain Strain

I am a career depressive.

I’ve been on all the drugs.

Back in the day I was on mianserin which they probably only use nowadays to tranquilize rhinos, and even then, only from a long way off.

After I came off that I was clean for years — snorting a bit of St John’s wort, purely recreationally you understand — although that does tend to turn one into a vampire.

But then I slowly slid off the wagon into the arms of  citalopram. I splarfed this for many years until it wore out, as these things tend to do. After that came a rocky patch in which I discovered that diazepam turned me into a zombie; mirtazapine a monster; and sertraline did nothing for me whatsoever. It was then that my Private Brain-Care Specialist prescribed venlafaxine, which for at least a decade has kept me from curling up into a fetal position and crying.

But now that, too, has begun to wear off. My Private Brain-Care Specialist (a new one, the previous one having retired) has prescribed vortioxetine. The same Private Brain Care Specialist also sent me some questionnaires which show without fear of contradiction that I am definitely up to my spleen on the Autism Spectrum notwithstanding inasmuch as which definite signs of ADHD, a revelation to which Offspring No. 1’s weltschmerzy response was ‘This Surprises Nobody’. It could explain why I feel as unable to relax as a frog in a frying pan; have to be completely unplugged from life in order to avoid going completely Harpic; and my idea of a perfect heavenhellHouston is probably two weeks in a sensory deprivation chamber. Though Leicestershire is nice.

But I digress. Back to the drugs. I have yet to take any vortioxetine (do at least try to keep up at the back), because — and if you’ve been there, you’ll know this — you can’t simply stop taking one kind of happy juice one day and pop a different one the next day week aeon femtosecond gosh I do wonder what day of the week it is and excuse me Madam but does this bus go to the Fart Barn. One has to slowly wean oneself off the old stuff, and, only when it’s out of one’s system, gradually up the dose of the new.

This process might take several weeks. As of now I have started a week in which I am taking … wait for it ….

… precisely nothing.

No safety net.

AAAAND NOW I shall try to dive off the tightrope and into the shark-infested bowl of custard below while missing all the sharks. And the custard. Next week, whenever that is, when hell freezes over or they build Jerusalem in England’s Green and Pleasant Etcetera so that must be the cause of that building site just off the A148 near Holt, who knew,  I start to take doses of vortioxetine so tiny they wouldn’t trouble a goldfish, and then up the dose in weekly excrements increments until I shall be capable of holding a conversation without zoning out and even then only with a golden retriever, but hey, she’s a good listener.

Happily, this slow process hasn’t reduced me to curling up into a fetal position and crying. It has, however, had its effects. Most of the time I feel slightly stoned, rather like Dylan from a Televisual Emission of YesterYore called the Magic Roundabout. Those of a Certain Age will remember Dylan as a hippy rabbit (reputedly named after Bob Dylan) who wandered around in a perpetual funk saying things such as ‘Like. Wow. Man’.

When not feeling stoned I do have the sense of Matches Not Striking On Box. Unpunched punchdrunk. Cry for no reason. Snappy. Irritable. Really, it’s awful. I shouldn’t recommend it. And I am always tired. But that could just be my age.

And this is after a physician-managed, slow process. The mental consequences of coming off venlafaxine all of a sudden — cold turkey — are scarcely imaginagle. Imaginable. No, I was right the first time, so I was.

There is a plus side, though. I am taking advantage of my somewhat trippy state to read a book I’d probably have no patience with otherwise. And it’s doing wonders for my musical creativity. I’m now deep into the Difficult Second Album of my current musical project, G&T (more about that here). I can now understand why musicians and drugs go together like, well, musicians and rugs. I meant drugs. Not rugs. Especially as they get older because, you know, when you are over 60, which I am, you get free drugs. The rugs though are extra. Butterflies. Possibly. And wheels.

MORAL: Don’t do drugs, kids. If you find you have to, don’t come off them. Ever. The withdrawal symptoms are too horrible to contemplate.