Notes From The Cold Turkey
Notes From The Cold Turkey.
I don’t know whether this really qualifies as a bona fide Guardian Arts and Entertainments Blog – in which case – like Alan Sugar, I’ll be donating my fee to the…actually, send it to me, I’ll decide where to fritter it.
Last week, having announced that I was dumping the anti-depressants which have kept me on an even keel for so long, I have received so many great messages of support that I thought it might be worth a follow up…anybody suggesting fiduciary motives can….well you know, but only if you want to.
Firstly, I was worried about seeming irresponsible, and flying in the face of far more educated medical advice. So far, it seems I have succeeded in getting over the withdrawal symptoms. I had three bedridden days – nothing new to me, excruciatingly fearful nightmares – I fully expected the police to arrive after I’d screamed for help at four in the morning – then I remembered, this is London, they’ll probably come next week.
It is probably unlawful for a newspaper to recommend its readers to abandon their prescriptions, so don’t do anything without consulting your quack first…I’ve written mine a letter, thanking him for his help, but mostly for his brilliant advice to take more exercise – and observe those around me… “We’re all miserable”.
Having had something of a pop/degenerate career, when I was finally of a mind to kick the Effexors, I was under no illusions, I’ve seen people kick heroin and even been there with a cold flannel and bowl of soup to minister to the sweaty emerging human beings.
The problem with prescription drugs is that the lifestyle they advocate does not include the horrendous comedowns. If you look on the web, there are countless self-help websites about kicking anti-depressants, which are rather heartbreaking. Because these pills are an unknown quantity, generally prescribed to innocent people at their lowest ebb, they have no clue about coming off them. Think Keith Richard, Ray Charles and `Michael Caine in the Ipcress File.
Having been away from home one time and running out of pills, I felt that my head would cave in, and that suicide was the best/quickest form of pain relief. I panicked, my family panicked, and subsequently, I vowed never to be without them again.
This time, I made sure that I had enough – should the worst come to the worst, then halved, quartered and ultimately stopped the dose. I told friends what I was doing, so even had some pretty nurses to help…which took my mind off things delightfully.
I got electric brain flashes – I still get them very mildly, nausea and the kind of feelings associated with a bad hangover. I tricked my body by drinking a lot of wine, to have a real hangover as well. Brains aren’t that bright you know – they can’t tell the difference.
An old friend – whom I’d never thought to call about this, is a clinical psychiatrist. He explained the brain flashes in laymans’s terms.
“ Imagine if you’d had an old car in the garage for years and you tried to start it up….that’s just the ignition firing up the engine”. This made perfect sense. The brain is like an old circuit board made of grey meat. You can shut it down, but once you crank it up again, be prepared for a headache. And for the depression to return.
Apart from the brain stuff, the only recognizable symptoms I suffered were an evening of crying jags. Tears while compiling a CD for my Brother-in-law’s funeral, My Death by Jacques Brel ( sung by Scot Walker ) set me off – which I thought could have happened anyway. Blubbing during a Nick Nolte film, where he plays a bank robber who rescues a little girl from an orphanage…unlikely to be natural. The killer psychotic symptom happened the next day. I got up really early, picked up my daughter and took her to Parliament Square to see Nelson Mandela unveil his statue. I am a cynical, lazy man- this was the drugs for sure. Mind you, it was wonderful.
If you’re one of the millions of people on anti-depressants, don’t kick them without medical help…but good luck x