The diagnosis

Abstract

You've always known you aren't normal. Not that you want to be, exactly. A great majority of the people around you seem strangely clueless: don't they know how hard everything is? Still, it would be nice to be comfortable somewhere, to laugh with friends and love your family and make some headway on a career. But you don't really fit, and it begins to weigh heavily. Maybe it started in grade school; surely by high school. You were a geek, a freak … a first-class loser. And come to think of it, you still are. People don't like you very much. And who could blame them? You don't like yourself. You've tried. You've tried everything. You looked for a guru: a coach, a priest, a teacher, a mate—somebody to fill in the missing parts of yourself. And the self-medication: recreational drugs, alcohol, sex, food, work, gambling, and every addiction you could come up with. Anything for a quick break from that slowly tightening spiral that is beginning to squeeze the life out of you. You keep looking, and all you get is older. Relationships fail. Dreams fade. Your life is a series of chores that you have no use for. You practice despair, and you get really good at it. Knowledge is power, and this is powerful knowledge: that you were born out of step, out of synch, in the wrong world, at the wrong time, for the wrong reasons; that you are stuck here. And it doesn't feel good. and there is no escape. Except there is one escape. One that begins to fill your mind, to answer every question, to promise release from every hurt, until finally you're scared enough that here you are, sitting in a doctor's office. And the doctor says: You're ill. There's a name for it. Other people have it. These are the symptoms. Relief is overpowering. It's not you. It's the disease. It's not the lonely empty overwhelming horrifying exhausting miserable world you thought it was. You're not the pathetic lazy ugly whining stupid miserable person you thought you were. It's just chemicals. It's just your brain. It's treatable. You don't have to feel this way! The big heavy thing that was about to crush you is lifted a bit, loosens up a little—enough so you can breathe again. The doctor hands you a sample pack of Hope and writes a prescription for more. You try one brand; maybe you try another. You and your doctor get the dosage right after a while. Antidepressant side effects aren't so bad. They're pretty safe; it's real hard to kill yourself with them, for instance—the newer ones, anyway. They blur your vision only a little. The headaches go away pretty soon. Stand up slowly and you won't get too dizzy. And if they don't work, you can try the older ones. You probably won't get kidney damage if you drink enough water. Your libido might not come back, but don't worry, Prozac doesn't make you crazy like the newspapers say. Just don't mention it to your boss. And smile! It's not you. It's just your brain; remember that. Not you. Just your brain.