Did Meds Make Me Lose My Edge?
When people ask me what it’s like to be on antidepressants, I tell them it’s like standing in front of a locked door. No matter how much you kick, pound, and yell, the door never opens and you cease to have access to that which is on the other side. No, you’re not suddenly an all-smiles game show host; you feel the full spectrum of emotion, but your fall is no longer precipitous, bottomless — your lows have a limit. And then you stand in front of the door and realize you’ve been denied entry to the dark country in which you once lived. Your visa has been removed, your passport confiscated. Medication reminds you there are now places you can no longer go.
Much of my writing (ok, fine, nearly all of it) is relentlessly dark. Up until last year, I was able to sit still in uncomfortable spaces and write from them with an ease that bordered on disturbing. I published two books, countless essays, and short stories before 150mg of Wellbutrin and a lot of uninsured talk therapy. I’d be lying if I didn’t consider, albeit for a brief moment, that I would lose access to that dark place, which fueled my work. Yesterday, I re-read a short story I’d written in the midst of the worst of my suicidal depression, and while I can remember the physical act of typing the words into a document, I can’t recall how I accessed this world or what propelled me to create it. All I thought was this: I don’t know if…
