To
Growl or Not to Growl: That is the Question
By
Matt
My
Miracle with Zoloft
My
problems began, believe it or not, when I was two and a half years
old. This I report on good faith from the voice and words of my
father. I trust him on this one, and I trust my earliest memories,
as well, starting sometime around age four, which are of a child who
was always, always unhappy. This “condition,” if you will,
continued, or rather persisted, until almost exactly three and a half
years ago (if my memory serves me right, and these days, often it
does). I am now forty-five, and I’ve been a “different person”
since that time. I’m sure at least some of you have guessed the
reason: medication, specifically, Zoloft.
I
have taken many different medications over the years, including
virtually the entire range of SSRIs (selective serotonergic reuptake
inhibitors), but this one, for some perhaps strange reason, did a
whole lot “more” for me than any of the others. To wax poetic,
Zoloft kicked me out of bed. It punched me into alertness and
awareness, and it got me going—swinging and ringing and dinging
like a Liberty Bell.
Until
the Zoloft, I had been drinking, smoking crack and about
three-packs-a-day of rolling-tobacco cigarettes, and I weighed some
50 pounds more than I do now. I was in a perpetually agonizing mental
condition that defies words. (As a writer, I should try to put it
into words, but I fear the length of my possible description.)
Suffice it to say, then, crack, and before that cocaine, were the
only things that really made me feel alive, i.e., normal. Ritalin
“worked,” but was also way addictive for me. When under the
influence of crack or cocaine, my symptoms would disappear, and would
stay gone for up to three days after the getting high, although
usually this respite lasted no longer than two days.
I
had been slugging to AA meetings for fifteen years prior to the
Zoloft, but to no avail. I had never, as they say in AA, “put any
time together.” I’d go a week max, and then “relapse.” (I put
this term in quotes because I’ve become highly skeptical of the AA
lexicon, or vocabulary. And that’s not all. Believe me. But we
mustn’t get angry.) So, after fifteen years of trying to stay off
the stuff (booze, cocaine, then crack and cigarettes), I had this
psychiatrist at the substance abuse clinic I was attending who tried
the generic Zoloft out on me. That’s what Medicaid likes to cover,
generics. Suffice it to say that for all intents and purposes, on
that very day I crawled out from my chronic, endless
nightmare-of-a-shell. Included in this “shell-existence” were
shame—perpetual shame; guilt, perpetual as well; envy; fear
(shitting-the-pants kind); hatred, loathing and contempt for everyone
who wasn’t
blood;
a gnawing, rotting sensation of all-enveloping inadequacy and
inferiority; consequently a jealous, embittered hatred for everyone
who made me feel small, which was—and I say this literally per all
my age-peers—everyone.
Everyone
made me feel small. Everyone. Every one.
Am
I angry? You bet I am. But at what, one might ask?
I
would say the biggest main targets of my anger are those arguably
institutionalized belief-systems in the so-called “recovery
community” that presume to tell me that I should be grateful, and
that I’m wrong if I’m not. Those “in recovery” will deny
saying this, but there’s no point arguing with them—much as it’s
almost impossibly difficult to argue with any fanatic, or religious
fundamentalist of any stripe. Again, the people I’m referring to
will deny they bear any similarity to such an ideological “type.”
So,
in a sense, I’ve been at war since the Zoloft-induced change. I’ve
been at war over two things: 1) As part of an effort to make up for
forty years “lost” to virtual functional incapacity, and 2) over
those who had and have the gall to tell me how, “spiritually”
speaking, I should view such a life-altering loss (with gratitude,
etc.). Their merely seemingly benign and innocuous rhetoric, if I’m
not careful, enrages me.
For
fifteen years I attended meetings, really never agreed with it (AA)
at all, but I had, literally, no other free community that even
pretended to care enough to offer support. That’s how badly off I
was. I stunk. I couldn’t afford toilet paper. I was easing my
bowels onto the street during crack-runs to the housing projects, and
I looked like the proverbial “bum.” I was knocking at hell’s
door (hats off to Dylan).
However,
I’m much better now. Thankfully. There. I’ve said it. Gratitude.
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