Today was a rare day apart from Tessa, and I spent a good part of it wandering around a very cold, dreary, rainy Manhattan, having gone to the psychopharmacologist to attempt to explain why my life has been so fucked up. I think I did an adequate job describing my youth, family and current circumstances, although I am feeling a bit scripted after doing it for the sixth mental health care professional in three months (2 interns, one bad shrink, one bad psychiatrist, one great social worker and now one awesome psychopharmacologist). Sometimes I think I overplay the worst parts of my youth because it makes the story better, but the truth was, I was pretty anxiety-ridden and friendless for the first fourteen years of my life. One of the reasons I’m so close to my family now is that I appreciate how insane I’d be if they hadn’t been there in 1979.
Dr. Gorman wanted to know a lot about my family’s mental history, and so I told her as much as I knew about my parents and siblings there must be an incredible genetic predisposition to this stuff. Overall, I think our meeting was designed to make sure I wasn’t some glue-sniffing moron hoping to crush up some Welbutrin and make strawberry seratonin shakes for my Camaro-driving friends. I think Dr. Gorman does it right; she gets to know the basics of her patients’ problems so that each person doesn’t become another disembodied head on an assembly line. I imagine there is a real career fatigue that sets in as a psychiatrist, simply popping pills into an endless supply of gaping maws.
One could wax invective about the ethics of chemical-altering mood drugs and how this country is becoming too dependent on them, but the person doing so can’t be holding either a liquor drink or a cigarette.
Tonight we attended the Naked Angels continuing “Tuesdays at Nine” series at Here and sat with Matty Dawson and Michael Mastro. There was a lot of good work to be seen, and I was impressed with everyone’s ability to “cold read.” Sean would be amazing as a part of this crew, but I suppose he’s got his own fish to fry with Gideon, who unfortunately just got shut out of the Fringe Festival. They rejected one of Mac’s plays about a post-terrorist apocalyptic set-up, and while my fragile psyche couldn’t possibly deal with the subject matter, the Fringe should have taken it. Michelle’s band of Union Square boneheads got in with some ham-bone skit about Jesus’ roommate. Maybe the Fringe wanted to go with what Zack Ward called “The Funny” this year.
The Celextant, April 30, 2002
So I asked Dr. Gorman simply, “If I hadn’t already started taking Celexa before I got here, what would you have put me on?” She replied, “Celexa is a really good drug.” So I feel as though I didn’t do anything too hasty (or at least I did do something hasty, but I lucked out). According to her, however, the 10mg I’m taking isn’t enough, and she gave me samples amping me up to 20mg, adding that most people don’t feel anything for six weeks. The higher dose makes sense: if I’m going to do this drug right, I might as well take an adult dose and get the fuck off it as soon as I can. She also said that there’s a new Celexa coming out this summer with less side effects, which is just fine by me, because I’m already having trouble with, well, you know. Not the starting of you-know, but the finishing. You know.
Why do I get the impression that this diary will ruin my bid for the Senate?