On Taking, and Not Taking, the Pills That Keep Me Alive

I was going to write about going off antidepressants. That didn’t happen.

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I had a whole plan. I was going to write this piece on a road trip from San Francisco to L.A. while withdrawing from antidepressants. In my poorly functioning mind, riddled with anxiety, racing thoughts, and near-hallucinations, I thought I had the perfect idea for an essay. It would start:

I am driving down the 101

I am driving down the 101, and I am 36 years old.

I am driving down the 101, and I am 36 years old, and I am leaving San Jose, California.

I repeat details like this to keep myself present and keen to the reality of the present situation because my brain would like to tell me otherwise…

See, it’s already bad. Generally, everything was, and had been, since I tried to stop taking the medicine that keeps me from jumping into public fountains, wearing a tinfoil hat, and extolling the virtues of cryptocurrency. I became anxious and overreactive. I obsessed over my relationship, debt, career. I was angry all the time. This was an Andy I had not seen in years; he’d vanished when I started taking the pills.