Zyprexa, that is.

Zyprexa gentled my psyche for four months after I had a mixed episode in April–a terrifying bout of mania and depression combined. I was resistant to it at first–anti-psychotic medication?–but finally I punched my ticket on the Z train and was ready to ride.

What was it like? Zyprexa is like pot that doesn’t get you high: quiets the mania immediately, makes you doddering and forgetful, and inspires a ravenous hunger. I’d been warned that I could expect to gain weight on Zyprexa (a small price to pay in exchange for not being, like, dead) and that I’d be hungry while I was eating, which was true. One user told me she used to bake a cake at night for her 3 a.m. munchies. After bedtime I’d start at one end of the kitchen and work my way to the other: Craisins, Lego fruit snacks, cereal, soy milk, SpongeBob Cheez-Its. All of it wonderful! So crunchy!

The ordinary disappointments of life glanced off my psychopharmacological armor. Professional rejection? Fuck it, let’s have cereal. Tough day at home? I’d curl up in a chair with a spoon of soy-nut butter. It was too easy, and it would have to end.

I stepped down to 2.5 mg for two weeks.

“Call me if you have any problems,” said my shrink. “Have me paged.”

I’m still waiting for the problems. So far it’s better than when I cold-turkeyed Serzone in 2000, better than when I was manic from too much Lexapro. I guess I’m pretty satisfied with how it’s all worked out–no, I have not lost weight–but one of the peculiarities of bipolar is that you’ll inevitably swing one way or the other sooner or later; the other shoe will eventually drop.