March 03, 2003

Well now. That wasn't so hard. Awhile back I wrote of the turrible turrible things that were going to happen to me once I kicked the evil Paxil habit. After a few weeks of reducing dosages, and arcing them back up when the gee-willie-weeblies got too intense, I finally said the hell with it and stopped cold. That was over two weeks ago.

This morning while listening to the Cocteau Twins' Victorialand through my Sennheisers on the train, I realized what the Paxil had done to me, in addition to making me less of a PTSD lunatic. Because the 7:54 train is always nearly full, I grab any window seat I can get. This morning, my seat on the train faced backwards, so I was able to look out and see where we had been, unscrolling past the window. The train itself cuts through low wooded hills, following a wide, ice-banked stream for much of the early part of the journey. There is still much snow on the ground, and so the forests have that stark, high-contrast wilderness look, black wet bark against cold white. If I narrowed my eyes a little, and let my mind drift along with Liz Fraser's melodies, I could project myself from the train, just a bit. Suddenly, I would very nearly grasp what it would be like to be out there, near that tree, or over there, flat on my back in the snow of that field, looking up at the sky. Then the train would roll onward and the fleeting sensation would be gone. I kept this up until forest and stream gave way to town and then to city. Then I didn't want to be anywhere but where I was, warm and being moved along.

I used to do that sort of thing often, and when I felt the familiar deep rushing my chest--sort of like the first hints of MDMA coming on--I realized that Paxil had put the big pharmaceutical kabosh on my ability to be sent by music. To give over to melody, and drift along all tingly and finely-lightened. I don't think it's a coincidence that I sat down at my K2500 this weekend (see left) and recorded about thirty seconds or so of 80s Cheese Factory. That's what I'm calling the tune, anyway. It's been a very long time since I've recorded anything at all, and this weekend I managed to record something of my own that sent me, just a little, to the places I travelled this morning on the train.

The downside--as Pea will attest--is that more than a bit of the Ugly Angry Man has returned. My temper has shortened, it's a struggle to maintain equilibrium when something goes awry, and I don't always win. But now I can feel the surges coming on, and I'm aware of them in a way that I wasn't before I took the Paxil. That's what it's supposed to be for: to provide a break, a respite from whatever patterns of depression or obsession are overwhelming you. I'm still not particularly good at beating back the swells of impatience or anger that continue to crop up, but that's still a far cry from how it was before, when I'd just let them wash over me and would float along with them until I got deposited, battered and bedraggled, on some regretful shore where nobody was happy, ever. Now I can beat the shit out of an old dryer with a hammer, go upstairs, crank up my own version of Müller's Bavokirche organ, and blast away until I am satisfied and my ears are ringing.

In the future, there will be less demolishing of old appliances, and more loud music, I am thinking. Right now, there is fascination: from a small pill, perspective. They should list that under side effects, right after dizziness, tremor, and sweating.