Tuesday, 15 July 2014

My Venlafaxine

I wanted to die again. However briefly the feelings gripped me the compulsion was always an earnest one. A more effective form of pain relief does not exist. This time I began goading myself to see if I had the balls to do anything about it. I didn't. I am very lucky I didn't.

Venlafaxine is a good drug. Maybe even a great one. It has certainly had a positive effect on my life. Almost seven months ago to the day I reached the lowest point of my depression. A complete mental capitulation whose antecedent causes I had been ignoring for too long. It spliced me right out of my work and social environment and had me bouncing from doctors to psychiatrist, to mental health clinics. I've never been as sick as I was at Christmas. I have never felt as lonely and rejected.

The point is that Venlafaxine, though by no means totally responsible, has had a dramatic effect upon my recovery. I think most people who know me would believe that my climb out of the sewers of despair has been both majestic and seamless. It probably appears as if I am more often happy and contented than I have ever been before. For the most part I would agree but there is still remaining something a little apocryphal in this idea. Depression still owns me. I will almost certainly remain its bonded chattel for the duration of my lifetime. I can have no control over the capricious malevolence of this master. All I can really hope to do is to shore up my defences as best I can. Learn from all the thrashings I have received from his hand and confront him. Eyes fixed, chest out!

It is my recurring inability to protect myself that makes me so fucking angry with myself. Despite being fairly intelligent I have a cancerous streak of naivety running through me. It encourages me to overlook obvious oncoming symptoms of depression. It allows me to completely ignore dangers I would otherwise be guarded against. It tickles me into believing that doing the same thing again and again will not have the same desultory affects.

So when I say that Venlafaxine is a great drug that has helped me massively I also have to admit that I disrespect it by pushing myself down to a place where I know I should not go. Drinking often and in high volume has in my case always at some stage resulted in a snap because the elastic has been stretched too far. I know this. I bet a lot of other people know this about me too. I am Bart Simpson continually touching the cupcake despite the electric shock.

I can't say I didn't see this Saturday night/ Sunday morning coming at me. There is no way I can suggest that it wasn't a certainty to happen if I continued as I had been doing. What does this mean? Well it tells me that I have some power to change the course of these events and by doing so resisting or at least delaying the agonising rupture of my progress. It tells me that I made a mistake once again by going beyond my safety threshold and that I am entirely to blame for anything destructive that I may have let happen.

I hope that once more the Venlafaxine has resumed its steady good work as the tyrannical alcohol subsides and my serotonin comes out to play once more. I am still a young man. Dans la force de l'âgeStill capable, still progressing, still stupid, still naive. If I can protect myself better from the constant self-criticism, the loneliness and depression by learning from my previous mistakes then perhaps I can at least allow myself to face it down with weapons more suited to the task. Eyes fixed, chest out.

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