There’s a line in Aldous Huxley’s novel, Brave New World that reads “Well, I’d rather be unhappy than have the sort of false, lying happiness you were having.” Within the past few weeks, I’ve discovered this sentence to hold more truth than I ever realized it could. Before, I repeatedly wondered why seemingly miniscule things have to bother me or uplift me such an overwhelming amount, why I care excessively about the people that surround me, and why I have to feel things--both positive and negative--so deeply and consumingly. I viewed sensitivity as an invisible enemy at war with myself that constantly distanced possibilities and has sought to bring me down.
At eight years old, my pediatrician prescribed me with Prozac for extreme anxiety and depression. Since I was so young, I wasn’t even aware of what it meant to “have anxiety” or “be depressed,” but I was also unable to function in day to day life. Consequently, my family and doctors saw this drug as the best solution for my health. I wasn’t able to swallow pills, so I’d have the sour syrup mixed in with mint chocolate chip ice cream every day. I don’t recall much from ages eight to thirteen during my time on this medication and I’ve finally pieced together the reason for this foggy gap in my childhood.
For numerous reasons this past summer exhibited some of the most difficult obstacles I have yet to experience. The season that typically brings me the most joy tore me to shreds. I would consider myself to have a fairly resilient personality, but I was sick of what I perceived as inescapable, thick clouds lingering in my head.
Since I had been on an anti-depressant for such an extensive time when I was younger and my body was already accustomed to the drug, I decided to go back on Prozac. Considering it seemed to improve my mental state back then, I assumed it would help me during my second year of college in New York City.
There was a distinct instance that I’m now able to identify as the moment when the medicine had worked its way into my bloodstream. I was on the plane headed for New York seated between two strangers. I’m naturally introverted and shy--especially when it comes to peculiar situations like sitting next to unknown people for long distances on planes--and would normally never strike up conversation with my neighbors. This time, I talked to both of them for the entire flight. I didn’t think much of it--in fact for the next few days I didn’t think much at all.
I transitioned back into the city with ease, spoke to more people than I probably have in the entirety of my existence, and felt weightless as I strolled around the area of my new apartment in Brooklyn. I continually asked myself why everybody wasn’t on this drug because it felt so good.
One night a few days after I returned to New York City, I scrolled through some articles online and stumbled upon one about the dangers of anti-depressants. I clicked on it because it was something I could relate to.
If brains could physically disassemble themselves like legos or fall apart like disturbed Jenga pieces, that’s what would have happened to mine as I read the article. The words on the screen read of things like “zombie” and “absent-minded” and “neutral.”
After digesting what I saw, I understood what this drug was doing to me. I replayed the previous few days in my head and was terrified of the person I had become in such a short time. I transformed into an observer of my own life who was obliviously fast-forwarding time. I had been forced to remind myself to eat and sleep, and was surprised I didn’t have to instruct myself on how to breathe. I usually awkwardly run into multiple people during the day, stutter when I talk, and make weird eye contact with others, but that went away. The fluctuations of my voice changed, but sentences never ceased to exit my mouth--even when I wasn’t completely aware of it's content. I listened to people around me speaking, but I couldn't comprehend the meaning behind their words. My rambling, never-ending internal dialogue halted. I didn't dream of anything. I couldn’t find beauty within my surroundings when my mind usually picks raw beauty out of all that I experience. Laughter was an exercise of muscle memory and I wasn’t capable of crying. I was completely numb.
The most crushing side effect was that I lost my craving for art and creativity. I was supposed to come up with a simple moodboard theme for a magazine submission, but my mind went blank when I attempted to brainstorm ideas. I had no impulses to create, when normally that’s all I desire. My own writing and art repulsed me and made me feel uncomfortable.
I was shaken up when I understood the short-term effects of the drug, but then I started to unpack why five years of my childhood were blurry and black and white. Waves of helplessness rolled over me when I began to process how I never created anything during those times. I didn’t build strong relationships or emit compassion. All that concerned me was my schoolwork. I didn’t live, I solely survived. After I was weaned off the medicine, I creeped my way back to what makes me want to be alive. It took experiencing the drug for a second (but very short-lived) occasion to reach this conclusion.
I scribbled all of the disturbing changes down and wanted to throw the pills into the Hudson. I settled for immediately throwing the bottle out. After I stopped the medication, I drank gallons of water just because I wanted the poison out of my body.
As awful as that week was, I needed it to happen. I detested my emotions before that week. I just wanted to be “normal” and make my hypersensitivity disappear. But if I made that disappear, I now know that there would be nothing left of me. I would be stripped of my passion and my ability to feel the world. My inspiration would be gone and so would everything that makes me, me. Everything that makes me human.
