Cold Turkey
Cold Turkey
One of the positive benefits of life’s momentous tragedies is the kick up the arse they give you. On the day my ex-wife, and now extremely good friend gave me the sack, I sat down and began to write a novel – the fact that it has yet to meet a printing press is neither here nor there. Without the rug being pulled from beneath my size nines, I’d never have got round to it. Likewise, the untimely toe up-turning of my dear brother-in-law has given me something else to think about. Perhaps you already detect a certain befuddlement of sentence construction, syntactical vagueness or clumsiness of idea imparting. Fact is – I’ve decided to go Cold Turkey from the Anti-Depressants I’ve been taking for the past seven years. It’s time to rediscover my inner arsehole.
I have been taking a magical little potion called Effexor Venlaflaxine, designed to keep me on an even keel – which to a certain extent it has done. Unfortunately it has also eroded all track of time. It would be incredibly disingenuous to blame these magic little pills in any way shape or form for my complete lack of success, drive or ambition during this time – I was always a lazy bastard and have never required help in this department. However, having faced the mortality of another, and considered their unfulfilled destiny, I have decided to kick mother’s little helpers into touch and see what happens.
Not being entirely ignorant of hard drugs, I have been expecting some unpleasantness, and so far I have not been disappointed. Nausea, dizziness and strange electrical sensations behind the eyes, which sound like a sword cutting the mark of Zorro have occurred for the last two days. I think this might be the little neurological areas made off limits by the drugs rebooting themselves – like trying to start a Hillman Minx which has been standing for years.
The Effexor Withdrawal websites make frightening reading – many say it is nigh-on impossible. The cynic in me says A. These are written by Americans, who have forgotten the meaning of suffering, and all that’s required is a bit of stiff upper lip ( I just watched a man die of cancer for God sake – who never complained about anything – even a tracheotomy without general anaesthetic.) B. These posts are by the press department of the drugs company themselves.
I’ve got a kill or cure mentality at present – If I’m not better by Thursday…funeral, and some form of oration by yours truly, I’ll relapse, but only temporarily.
I tried to explain what I was up to to my mother.
“I’m stripping away all the soft furnishings, taking up the carpet, and intend to get back to the bare boards once again.”
She took it literally and thinks I have gone doolally and am destroying my flat.
“ But you’re only renting the place – what will your landlord say?”
Fear not mother. My inner arsehole, the non-drugged, non-tranquilized, awful little fella of old will soon be returning to the fold. Mop out a stable and see who turns up.