RealMental

In a fit of pique at the library today I picked up hip-hop mogul Russell Simmons’s self-help book, cumbersomely titled Do You! 12 Laws to Access the Power in You to Achieve Happiness and Success. I like the way You is italicized; maybe my whole problem is that I never thought of myself in italics before. I noticed upon a quick skim that Never Quit is frequently capitalized, and there is a subhead called Your Ear Is an Embryo, which I thought was an idea worth exploring.

Because really, why not? What the fuck. You have to be careful with this self-help stuff–a wrong turn and you might end up in the Landmark Forum or hooked on Flylady or something–but at the same time the essence of surviving depression is the willingness to try to think differently: to endeavor to change the way your mind works, to rewire some of the synapses, to use more of the mighty forebrain and fewer of the dark, reptilian parts in the back. You have to do it. There is no choice. Russell Simmons will explain to me how my ear is an embryo, and I will decide whether to listen, whether to accept. I’ll probably be reminded of Krush Groove, particularly the scene when Rick Rubin is in his underpants. And who knows? Perhaps the advice of Russell Simmons will be like a large and expensive sneaker kicking me in the ass, in a good way.

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.