The Ability to Feel Again

A Reflection on Anxiety, Drugs, and the Currents of Life

The primary sensation of anxiety or depression is one of being overwhelmed.  There are too many thoughts, too many feelings, too much negativity, too much second guessing, all of it building up on itself in a wave that’s always cresting over you, threatening to crash.  At the height, it’s had to think of anything else.  You want all of it to stop.  You would do anything to get rid of the feeling, any feeling, all feeling, as long as you can stop whatever is overflowing.  Maybe it’s fear or grief or hopeless or doubt.  For me, it was shame.

I had what was called social anxiety.  I’ve described it before as overawareness.  I could not stop thinking about all the many way in which my interactions with people might give the wrong impression or be misperceived or cause offense or make people dislike me.  And if something did not go as expected, if I did not say the right thing, even if the other person did not notice or care, I would obsess over it, replaying the words in my head as I tried to sleep.

For example, I was often deeply reluctant to call someone, even a friend or family member, because I was afraid it might have been a bad time for them to talk or it that might interrupt something or that they wouldn’t want to talk to me right then.  I had a hard time approaching people at a gathering due to an overwhelming sense that the conversation would be unwanted or awkward or wouldn’t go well.  And yes, that did happen occasionally, but all the perfectly normal conversations and phone calls could not rid me of those feelings of dread and shame.  It was hurting my relationships and my work and my writing, and I just wanted it to stop.

As it turns out, there’s a pill for that.  So I took it.  And I was initially pleased with the results.  The effect is one of smothering, like a blanket being laid over a geyser.  It doesn’t make the water go away, but it does redirect the force of it.  The pills don’t make it so you can’t feel anything at all, but they do stem the unstoppable tide, making it somewhat less overwhelming, which gives you a chance to control them.  That’s the theory.  I noticed the change, and while I didn’t get much better at talking on the phone or building relationships, I want to think it helped overall.  At any rate, it felt good to finally do something.*

But after several years of decent success without any real breakthroughs, I began to question whether they were truly necessary.  Would I have to take a pill every day for the rest of my life?  Why not?  Plenty of people seem to.  I’ve seen people carry around those pillboxes stuffed with 8 different medications for each day of the week.  I take a couple of vitamins every day, except when I forget.  But vitamins don’t attempt to throw a wet blanket over your heart and mind.  So I didn’t want to take it just for the reassurance and the great taste.  At one point, my psychiatrist had mentioned trying to ween off of them, if I were feeling better, and that set me to wondering.

So I quit.  Not all at once.  I tapered, like my doctor advised.  At first, a pill every other day, then every couple of days, then not at all.  Maybe that wasn’t the best way, I don’t know.  I had a terrible headache for a week after the last pill, then I was fine.  That was a few months ago, and I haven’t noticed any significant changes, except for two things.

The first is minor but interesting to note.  The sexual side effects are real.  I remember this change when I started the meds, basically from the very first dose, and while it never really bothered me or made sex unenjoyable, it was an undeniably real thing.  The same was true when I stopped.  The side effects disappeared immediately.  It’s weird, and a little scary, to think that a drug would have such a direct effect on you.  But then, if they had no effect, why take them in the first place?  You just rarely experience it so starkly.  I can only wish it worked as well on my anxiety.

Second, I’ve begun to experience moments of emotion that bring a tear to my eye.  Nothing inappropriate.  It’s not like I’m weeping into my cereal bowl every morning, but if I see a touching scene in a movie or my kids do something cute or I start to reflect on my own parents, I might get a little choked up.  On the medication, bursts of fear or sadness or joy or gratitude would still occasionally erupt—I never felt completely numb—but I had nearly forgotten the small currents of emotion that run through daily life.  My experience had been smoothed out, the springs dammed up into a placid lake.  That’s what I had wanted, of course, to stop the overwhelming flow.  I had not reckoned with the cost.

It makes me consider the actual value of emotions.  Why would I want to feel a touch of sadness when watching TV?  Why would I want to feel the tremble of fear at the railing of a high balcony?  Why bother getting worked up over a sweet comment from a kid if it means I also have to worry over calling someone on the phone?  Why not have a perfectly smooth ride through life, if I can?

Because it’s boring.  Worse, it’s the kind of boring that leads to decay.  Less a lazy river and more a stagnant puddle.  I need the ups and downs to feel any sense of direction or meaning in life.  I need to know what is good, what brings joy, what inspires awe, in order to pursue it.  I need to know what is bad and harmful and corrupt in order to move beyond it.  That glimpse of satisfaction when my child succeeds takes me out of my own personal concerns.  The touch of sadness or longing at a movie scene is a reminder of how precious and meaningful my real connections are.  The gratitude for my dad reinforces the purpose of the service and sacrifices for my own family.  Not that I wouldn’t love my kids or remember to take care of them without it, but the daily reminders keep me focused on the important things and nudge me in the right directions.  Give them all to me, uncomfortable or embarrassing though they may be.

Don’t spare the pain, either.  It is frustrating to pick up the same wrappers or toys again and again, but it is also a chance to teach my children responsibility and myself patience.  Better to have a small moment of frustration than an explosion of anger.  Let me tremble when they walk the high beam, so that I can temper my nerves and learn the costs of success.  Give me sorrow when they fall, that I might know how to comfort them.  I want it.  Yes, even the prick of fear I still feel over the prospect of a phone call and the moment of shame when I say the wrong thing.  It reminds me of how far I’ve come.

That movement, from the bad toward the good, from sadness toward gratitude, from fear toward courage, from danger toward safety, is the thrill of life.  It’s the feeling of the wind in your hair, of the drop in your chest, of adventure.  It’s what makes the rapids fun.

The medicine is supposed to moderate the feelings, to bring down the extremes, and for many people it works well.  Maybe too well.  In my experience, it brought down not only the extremely large but also the extremely small.  I think I lost something important in that trade that I am only beginning to understand, that I did not even know was there.  I can’t say whether the bargain is good or necessary for you, but I can say that the goal of life isn’t to feeling nothing, and it isn’t to only feel good and pleasant emotions either.  

You need both to move.  Otherwise you’ll stagnate, filled with boredom and consumed by ennui.  Embrace those moments, big and small, that bring a tear to your eye or a chill to your heart.  Don’t try to sink them.  Rather, work hard to surface them, even if—especially if—you need help to overcome the worst of it.  Don’t stagnate in boredom and despair.  Allow yourself to flow within the current of life.  It’s the only way to reach the places you are bound to go.

-Dave

*I don’t want to stumble into the controversy surrounding SSRIs.  I think they’re probably overprescribed, like practically every other drug in America.  Our culture tends to have an unhealthy relationship with technology whereby we expect every problem, no matter how complex, to be solved by the application of some new method or device or pill.  That isn’t true, and it often prevents people from doing the real work needed to change.  However, technology obviously does help a great number of people, and that includes medications, so if you need the help, it’s probably worth a shot.  Just don’t expect it to fix all your mental and emotional issues on its own.  Personally, I never thought it helped the way I wanted it to, but it has helped others I know.  Your mileage may vary.