On going off my antidepressants
Once upon a time, a man was very sad. His sadness was physiological, he was told—unrelated to the conditions of his life. The man was half-aware of a phenomenon called 'science', which sought to make testable, repeatable prediction about future events. Scientists had in the last half-century expanded their predictive abilities to include mental phenomena, and they had observed that certain physical substances, when ingested, had the ability to reduce human beings' self-reported feelings of sadness. They had extrapolated outwards from this finding—if a certain salt had the ability to reduce sadness, then obviously sadness must have some chemical component.
To the sad man, this was plausible. He believed himself to be sad because his effort in life to achieve high social status had failed—he had shown an initial precocity with music and had thought that by playing music well, people would pay attention to him and recognize him as a superior human being. For a time, this had worked, but once he'd entered his fourth decade of life, his peers regarded his profession as pathetic and juvenile. He sensed some distance between him and them, some derision, some lack of respect, and this made him sad. But he had also been reassured, by different scientists, that this feeling of being derided might be illusory: it might be 'all in his head'. His peers had no special need to convey to him, through slight snubs and jokes and through status displays of their own, that they held him in little respect. It might in fact be some chemical process that was making him sad, and his sadness was perhaps making him perceive a lack of respect that didn't truly exist. Thus, in confronting his sadness, the man was reassured that it was pointless to attempt to directly attack the symptoms of disrespect: he ought not, he was told, attempt to win fame or respect, and he certainly ought not cut himself off from people who (in his opinion) didn't respect him. These would be the wrong things to do. Instead he ought to take certain chemicals and engage in certain other practices designed to bring his mental ecology into balance. Chief amongst the latter were three therapeutic activities: a) gratuitous physical movement; b) contact with nature; and c) a form of guided self-reflective activity known as meditation. He had never felt the desire for any of these three things, but he was assured that they (along with the chemical salts) were his ticket out of his sadness.
The man for years had attempted to channel his sadness into the writing of very sad songs, but lately he'd grown disillusioned with singing and song-writing. It was such a fucking pain to sit around, writing a song, to play it in concert, to try and get some producer to okay it, to have discussions about it and pick it apart. He'd for a time tried singing his new songs directly into his phone, which connected him to an audience of ten thousand or so people, but this too only made him feel bad—there was a phenomenon, for singers, known as "going viral". When a song truly resonated, then it would be shared and reach a much broader audience. And every time his music did not go viral, he felt it to be deficient, and he felt that the initial impulse for the music was cheapened. His sadness was made sadder because it was a sterile sadness—his sadness didn't connect with or inspire other people.
Nonetheless he tried for some years to follow the advice he was given by friends, family, and medical professionals. He took the chemical salts. He meditated, he exercised, he walked. But he undertook all of these actions so half-heartedly, starting and stopping, doing it a day here and a day there, that he always had for himself the excuse that he "hadn't really given it a try." If only he had really exercised the way you were supposed to, for thirty minutes a day, with elevated heart-rate. If he only he had really tried to step back from his thoughts while meditating. If only he had really done his ten thousand steps. If only he had really stayed on his treatment regimen. If only he had really eaten properly, instead of ordering so much takeout and drinking so much. If only he'd gone and enjoyed himself at the dinner thrown by his rich friends who'd just bought a house, or to the movie premiere of his friend who'd broken into doing soundtrack work. If only he'd done the things he couldn't bring himself to do!
Meanwhile, the financial underpinnings of his life grew shakier. It was harder to book gigs, gas got more expensive, his car broke down, he needed to buy a new instrument. Debt piled up, and yet oddly he wasn't saddened by the debt—he was so sad now that the debt didn't figure as a real problem. He'd stopped thinking more than a year or two into the future.
The man lived in a rent-controlled apartment in San Francisco. He'd lived here for twenty years, which meant his rent was far below market rate. But he was suddenly handed an eviction notice. In his sadness, he went to find lawyers to fight it, but somehow things kept slipping through the cracks, notices kept piling up, the landlord kept coming around, knocking, offering him deals to leave. His brain was askew—he didn't understand any of it. He felt under siege in his apartment, and yet it was also the only place he felt safe. He took to hiding in his bedroom, piling objects around the door—he drew the curtains, stopped going out. One time he thought that he'd turned on the oven, but then he went back an hour later and the oven was cold, so he thought oh my god, the house is full of gas—he opened all the windows and then he closed up all the vents and pipes leading to the oven / range, so he wouldn't be tempted to use it again. Instead he ate all his meals from the microwave. And in his smelly, decrepit state he reached for his guitar, and he pulled the device into his lap—he began plucking on the strings and beating on the neck and body of the instrument, like he was four years old. He started singing to himself, just trying to enjoy the music. And, almost against his will, he began to shape the music, to harmonize, to alter, to turn it into something. He worked for months, as the landlord knocked on the door and the mail piled up. He perfected his songs, and sometimes, yes, he dreamed of releasing them—he thought what if I opened my phone and sang out to the world and the world responded, what if they came and saw the power shining out of my bearded, ugly, smelly body in this little cave of a home. But he was afraid: he knew that in 99 percent of cases, a man's last stab at artistic fame tends to be pathetic and ridiculous. And these songs were long: almost ten minutes each. They were atonal and strange, with little spoken sections and falsetto interludes. They sounded, in fact, quite insane.
He knew that, objectively speaking, this music likely had no value for anyone other than himself. That if he was online, and he heard someone else release this stuff he'd be like, that's self-indulgent crap—that’s a guy pretending to be a genius because only genius could justify making such an absolute mess of your life.
And yet the man continued to play—for long months he continued to play, shaping the music into a kind of prayer, a kind of chant for nobody but himself and the God that he'd begun to worship in the privacy of his own home. And so long as he played, the landlord didn't knock, and food continued to arrive, and he remained safe.
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I was going to end the story there, but that's a cop-out isn't it? What happens next to the sad man? I think it depends on which world we live in. Is it the materialist one—a world where the scientists will someday explain all phenomenon (even though they haven't yet?). If so then you've only three options: up, down, or sideways. Either his songs are successful and bring him fame, or he is evicted and goes to live in his car or he comes to his senses and gets a real job. Then within each of these three options you have an up, down, or sideways option with regards to his happiness. Perhaps success brings him happiness and perhaps it doesn't, perhaps being evicted makes him strong and resilient and he realizes he can handle anything, or perhaps it makes him weak and ashamed. Perhaps in his new office job he learns to enjoy middling status or perhaps he just feels sapped of all joy and meaning. Or maybe he just muddles through in all scenarios, with periods of sadness or happiness, mediated by his biochemistry.
But I wanted to end the story where I did because I think the man sitting alone in his apartment, humming and singing to himself, pronouncing words, playing music, has, in that act, finally cured himself. And I don't mean that in the abstract sense: I don't think art, in the abstract, can save people. But a man who has spent his life thinking about his art can I think eventually come full circle, so that he possesses the spontaneity of the child but the wisdom of the adult, and he can create a work of solo genius—a work of art meant for an audience of one—he can create an artwork that is to him something greater than anything external—any work by Shakespeare or Beethoven or Bach—ever could be. With all his skill and his self-knowledge, he can alone in the silence of himself create the ultimate work of art, and he can experience the apotheosis towards which all art strives. And the result might not, to the onlooker, sound or look very good, but to the man itself, the song goes beyond consolation, and beyond expression, and it transfigures him in the way therapy always promises to do but never quite manages.
And in that moment of transformation, the man touches something deeper than the self. There is a reason the landlord does not knock. There is a reason the neighbor does not complain. There is a reason the noodles keep arriving via online delivery. And it is because he's reached through the center of reality itself—and although he will never achieve the things he wanted (money, security, social status). he will see that those things were the form of something else. That money represented some immanent relationship between his consciousness and the world, and that by sticking his hand into the guts of the world and performing a neat bit of surgery, he's managed to stitch things together in a way where money is no longer necessary.
So the man's eviction woes simply disappear. The landlord never comes back. But the man emerges from his apartment, and he goes amongst the people, and he plays, and he's given what he needs, and those who need his voice are able to hear it. And if you wanna call that being a prophet or a shaman or a magician, you can call it that, sure. But you can also say he's just a really cool dude, to whom the usual rules do not apply.
Afterword
About eight months ago I read this book called Lost Connections by Johann Hari. It’s about the science behind antidepressants. I don’t want to get too much into the details of the book, because it’s a pop-science book, and it’s probably junk. Like…I’m sure some real scientist could pick it apart in seconds. The truth is, antidepressants do work. They are effective at treating depression.
But, in reading the book, I just started to question whether I knew what depression actually was. I’d been on antidepressants for twelve years, and whenever I asked doctors if I should go off, they always said, “Why would you want to?” And I’d be like, “I dunno—I wasn’t always on them. Why should I be on them forever?” And the truth is, as my dosages increased, my depression did appear to lesson—I’d certainly been less depressed in the past five years than in the five years previous.
The thing that’s bothered me, though, is that when I got on antidepressants twelve years ago, I got really depressed over being alone—never having dated or done romantic things. And that depression, once it cleared, spurred me to change that facet of my life! Twelve years later, I was married and had a child, precisely because of that depression! Similarly, I’ve had other productive depressions. Once I got so depressed while looking for an agent that I was spurred to write stories and essays and proposals on my own, which led in a very direct way to me getting three book deals in a year. And of course I only transitioned because I got horribly depressed at the prospect of becoming a ‘father’. In each case, the despair jolted me out of some homeostasis. I started wondering if maybe I was missing out by not getting depressed—if antidepressants did work, were they making something bearable that I really ought to change?
I talked to my doctor about going off my antidepressants, and he of course tried to talk me out of it. He said he was out of town and we should talk in two weeks. I decided to quit cold turkey, which you’re not really supposed to do, because the drug I was on (Cymbalta) has bad withdrawal symptoms. But I was like—when I actually want medical care, the system is always delaying me, but I’m not gonna let it delay me from stopping care that I don’t want. Ultimately I am also not the biggest believer in ‘tapering’. I feel like you always suffer withdrawal when you quit anyway, so why prolong it. Sometimes tapering is necessary because withdrawal can kill you (alcohol / benzos), but in this case that wasn’t a risk.
Anyway I quit and was quite irritable for a month, which was hard on my wife. Then I was fine for a few months. Then my book, The Default World, came out, and I got really depressed. Crying, listlessness, all of it. I still have all my old pills, so I certainly considered going back on, and I probably would’ve done so if the feelings had lasted much longer. But, you know what? A month passed and they mostly went away. And during that month I started writing a very different kind of story, like the one you see above.
I hesitate to write about this, because I’m not against antidepressants. If you’re suicidal or your life doesn’t feel worth living, what else can you do? Antidepressants have to be a part of the mix. And I can certainly imagine a circumstance where I’d try them again. But I just felt very strongly like my time on them was finished for now.
As an aside, when it comes to the story above, the ending reflects my overall dissatisfaction with science (and, by implication, pop-science and self-help books) as a guide for life. Science is a useful tool for creating public policy, but I don’t know if it’s that useful when it comes to advising a person as to how to live their one and only life on this earth. Science can ameliorate your depression, but it can’t tell you whether this depression is actually useful or good—only the individual can do that. Science can make predictions in aggregate, but it can’t predict what will happen to this specific man, in this situation. Which is to say, we’ve all known cool dudes who are good at the guitar and never seem to get evicted. Are they using magic? Probably not—but science certainly can’t satisfactorily explain this phenomenon at this juncture.
Further Reading
I wrote in more detail about the Hari book back when I read it. Strongly recommend. At the time I wrote about the idea that perhaps people in pre-modern time were less depressed than us. As I recall, my commenters found the notion quite controversial (even more controversial was the notion, which seems to be inarguable, that pre-modern combatants were vastly less likely to suffer from PTSD).
If in fact people were less depressed in pre-modern times, it certainly would be a blow struck at the heart of modernity. After all, modernity’s appeal lies precisely in its ability to deliver plenty, and the appeal of plenty is that it satisfies us and renders us content. If the latter half of this equation is broken, then modernity is having difficulty. It has certainly occurred to me that the reason for the rise of the right-wing is that so many people, for whatever reason, do not consider their lives worth living. Maybe they would indeed be happier if people told them what to do!
Oh yeah and finally, my novel got a great review in Xtra, a queer journal:
In The Default World, Kanakia is dedicated to the kind of harsh realism that Jhanvi respects. It’s not a particularly warm or forgiving text, but this means that its moments of levity and connection are hard-won and therefore ring true. It’s a smart, difficult, rewarding novel that requires some tenacity of its readers—and gifts them handsomely for it, with zinger after zinger of sharply observed, hilarious truths about millennial tech culture, allyship discourse, alternative living and making it as a trans woman adventurer in a cis-centric, bro-oriented, inhospitable world.
It's a really good review, it's kind of a rave! Grateful to everyone who's taken the time to read and understand the book. Here's a link to order it on Amazon.
This was relatable to the extent I raced through this story as if it might have the solution to my own life. The same solution Woolf had for Lily Briscoe it seems. I’ll take that over the usual messaging to be just be Christian and have babies.
that story was amazing. thank you.